Fan Mail
by Covalent Bond
Summary: Growing fame means a growing stack of fan letters and a growing sense of confusion for his favorite forensic anthropologist, who can't understand why complete strangers would write to her. As Booth tries to explain the psychology of fan mail, he stumbles across one letter too disturbing to ignore.
1. Fan Mail

**Author's Note:** One day while pondering the possibility that Brennan may have a mild case of Asperger's, the following tale popped out.

This is set very early in season two, around the time Brennan's second novel was published.

~Q~

* * *

**Fan Mail**

* * *

"Sometimes, I feel like I'm illiterate."

They had just finished a rather grueling round of paperwork on a double homicide, the remains of files and boxes of fried rice littering her dining table a few feet away. His partner had relaxed into a loose button-up denim shirt over yoga pants while he had shucked jacket, tie and shoes, his sleeves and top two buttons loose.

After eating they'd retreated from the mess of papers to jointly slouching with beers on her couch, winding down to a point where they could just enjoy each other's companionship. This had been happening a lot lately, the two of them prolonging their evening together long after any excuse of work and dinner had expired. After being with Parker, (who was his first priority, but Rebecca still kept those opportunities to a minimum), Booth would rather spend time sitting quietly with Brennan, stealing glances at her from time to time, then doing just about anything else.

She was fascinating, occasionally (and often quite unintentionally) hilarious, and he thought that he was finally beginning to understand her... But then she would go and say something like this, which proved how far he still had to go in terms of learning the terrain of Temperance Brennan. Booth lifted his head off the back of the couch when she spoke, but the words pulled him fully upright. He wasn't sure what surprised him more: what she'd just said, or that she'd said it at all.

Bones was a genius (probably certified by Mensa), held three doctorates, could read and write in six languages, and routinely perused dense academic articles bearing exciting titles like _The Use of Radiology in Mass Fatality Events,_ as "leisure reading." So he knew she wasn't being literal for once, which meant he needed to follow up on this odd line of self-disclosure.

"Why do you say that?"

Shifting weight so she could tuck one foot under the opposite leg, Brennan surprised him again with a frank admission. "I don't know what anything actually means. If a person says something, I don't know what they want me to say back. If I send a letter and the person doesn't respond, what does that mean? Does it mean they're angry? But what if they're not. What if they're just busy? Or what if they just ... don't know what to say?"

"I guess any of those explanations are possible," he agreed cautiously.

"Well then what am _I_ supposed to say?"

A little confused himself now, Booth suggested, "You just say what you're thinking."

"But I don't know! I don't know what they want me to say."

Hearing the frustration, he could only sigh and try to reassure her. "Bones. People aren't that complicated."

She pinned him with bleak eyes, a contradicting hopelessness that scored his heart. Whatever she was thinking of belied his words greatly. As far as she was concerned, people were impossibly complicated. So he shifted too, facing her. "What happened?"

Without a word, Brennan got up and walked over to her desk in the corner, lifted an inbox tray and returned to upend it unexpectedly into his lap. Thirteen letters tumbled between his legs and fluttered to the floor.

"Whoa!"

His partner set the tray onto the coffee table with a noisy _clack_ and resumed her seat wearing a woebegone expression while Booth reached down to retrieve thirteen envelopes addressed to her in thirteen unique styles of handwriting. "What are these?"

"Fan mail. I guess."

His brows shot up, and he couldn't help the proud little smile that crept out at the disclosure. "Really?" His partner was coming up in the world, getting actual fan mail! Why wasn't she happier?

She nodded and looked miserable.

He was baffled by her misery, suddenly concerned that the content was what had upset her. "What do they say?"

"You can read them."

"Bones, I can't read your fan mail," he objected.

"Why not?"

"Well... " Why not indeed. She'd given them to him and she was looking at him so very hopefully. "You really want me to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what they want."

Glancing down through various return addresses, he noted a fairly even mix of male and female writers in the stack (plus one anonymous) and started to understand the source of her confusion. "Who says they want anything? They're probably just fan letters."

"Why did they send those letters to me?"

"Because..." But he didn't have an answer quite yet. Booth had never sent a fan letter himself, and without reading the letters, he could only guess at the motivations behind them. "I don't know. Maybe they just wanted to reach out to you."

"Why? They don't know me." Brennan wrapped her arms around herself, sinking back into the cushions and gnawing on her lower lip.

Booth felt his heart squeeze a little, realizing how fortunate he was to know her like this: unsettled, slightly unsure of herself, the Tempe side of Dr. Temperance Brennan. He got to be with the writer they all admired and yet there was so much of her that he didn't know yet. So much of himself that he still hadn't shared with her. He nodded, suddenly getting it. "They feel like they know you a little, from your writing. They want you to know them, too. Or maybe they just want you to know how your writing affects them."

"What am I supposed to do," she asked, her voice cracking over the uncertainty that he knew she hated.

"You're not supposed to '_do_' anything," he shrugged, handing the stack back to her.

"Should I write them back?"

"If you want to." Booth leaned over and nudged her shoulder. "But you know, once your second book hits the best-seller list, these letters are gonna start pouring in. Pretty soon you'll be getting so much fan mail you'll have to hire a reader."

She stared at him, aghast. "What? Why!"

"Why? Because you're not going to have enough time to read them all."

"No, I mean, why are these people writing to me?"

And he could see the worry cycling in her mind. "Are these the first fan letters you've ever gotten?"

"No." Brennan got up again and returned a few minutes later with a small file, inside of which were letters neatly unfolded, stapled to their original envelopes, and arranged in chronological order in front of her painstakingly hand-written replies.

Chuckling, Booth flipped through the carefully organized stack and shook his head. Leave it to Brennan to create a fan mail file. "How many are here?"

"Twenty five."

"That's not too bad," he pointed out. "Twenty five in a year is a manageable amount."

Gesturing to the pile she'd first shown him, Brennan admitted, "Those came yesterday."

"Ah." Another burst of understanding softened his eyes. "Your book went on sale a few days ago."

"Booth, some of the things they wrote..."

"You don't have to read them," he assured her.

Brennan reached out to pluck a letter off the top of the pile. It was addressed to her in block letters, the script even and neat. Opening it, her eyes lifted to Booth's in a turbulent swirl that captured his attention even as she was handing the letter over to him. Their gazes held, locked, until he finally dropped away to peruse the papers in his hands.

The writer assured her he wasn't clinically insane. He's never written to anyone like this before. Booth cleared his throat, eyes darting up to hers once more, briefly, seeking her approval. Brennan had begun nibbling on her lower lip again, a habit he'd noticed when she was uncomfortable and trying to think her way out of it. Back to the letter, then, to a writer who swore he'd first been captivated by her photo on the back of her book. She had such beautiful eyes...

Two more paragraphs outlined her perfection in increasingly explicit detail, causing Booth's eyes to narrow and a burning territoriality to begin throbbing somewhere between his temples. Who the hell was this guy to talk about _his_ Bones that way? As if that wasn't bad enough, the unknown male began describing all the depraved things he wanted to do with Bones and by the next page Booth was grinding his teeth together and seriously torn between tearing up the letter or taking his gun out and shooting any male that so much as looked in her direction. (Not that she would allow it and he was fairly certain she'd be ticked off if she knew what he was thinking right now in terms of her sort of being his: his partner, his Bones, his to protect whether she liked it or not.) But how could he protect her from an anonymous note?

Never had he imagined writing filth like that to a woman, and the thought that his partner had been violated in a way, just by reading this... Booth's hand shook a little as he folded the letter back up and then wondered what to do with it.

Sensing his anger, she silently relieved him of the burden. The letter was unceremoniously stuffed back into its envelope but then Booth plucked it out of her hands (because frankly, he didn't want her touching it) and used the cover of examining the envelope carefully to justify keeping it away from her. "No return address."

And no stamp.

He pushed down a surge of worry over what that meant, hoping it was too early to panic.

Silence for three heartbeats.

"Why did he send that to me?" she wondered, swallowing down distaste and a little bit of revulsion.

The content of the letter bothered him most, but her worry about _why_ certainly merited consideration as well. His question came out sharp. "Have you ever gotten a letter like this before?"

"No."

That made Booth breathe a sigh of relief, but he could see that she was still waiting for an explanation that he didn't have. "I don't know. I can give it to one of the shrinks in the Behavioral Sciences Unit if you want."

"Psychology?" She rolled her eyes. "No thanks."

"Look, I don't know why the creep sent you a letter like this. Maybe he got a little tingle writing it, or at the thought of you reading it. But either way you're not going to answer a letter like this one, okay? Just throw it in the garbage."

"Paper should be recycled," she mumbled.

"Not when it's this corrupted," he countered, thinking even holy water might not be amiss in this case. "You got a shredder?"

"It's just paper, Booth." Snatching the envelope once more, she stalked over to her kitchen and chucked it straight into the recycle bin. It was so stereotypically _Bones_ - defiant, determined, not to mention dedicated to the environment - that Booth laughed fondly. She smiled too, on the way back, reminding him of how damn beautiful she really was. Not just her eyes and body, but her heart and soul as well. She was just ... beautiful.

And because of that beauty the occasional Tom, Dick, or Horny Harry was going to be drooling over her photo, sending her creepy letters, and there really wasn't much he could do about it. Booth sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "If you get any other disturbing letters like this, you let me know. Okay?"

Her scowl was priceless.

Time for a little distraction, then. Booth rubbed his hands together. "Okay, what else you got there?"

~Q~

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone for reading this first chapter.


	2. Return to Innocence

**Author's Note:** Eek!Where did all of you lovely readers come from!?

True confession: when I posted the first chapter I had a very different idea in mind. This is one of those cases where the content of reviews pushed the story into a new direction because I suspect you're all eagerly hoping for something _other_ than what I intended. Hrm... Back to the drawing board...

~Q~

* * *

**Fan Mail - Return to Innocence**

* * *

"So, what else you got there?"

A nagging doubt about leaving without that unstamped atrocity littering her recycling had already begun to settle in while he watched her pawing through her remaining stack of letters, but he wasn't certain if he should indulge it at the risk of alarming (or, more likely, irritating) his independent partner. Only one letter so far, completely anonymous, and no indication that any other contact ever had or ever would take place. She would accuse him of overreacting.

The real problem, of course, was the fact that sending unsolicited lusty letters was not a crime. Not even anonymous ones with no stamp were crimes. The writer had made no overt threats towards her, it was mostly just x-rated word porn spun into a fantasy staring Temperance Brennan. The addresses of the other letters all indicated they'd been sent to her publisher, so he assumed the anonymous one had been slipped in among them as well. Better never to assume, however...

"Did these come to your apartment?"

"No, my publisher gave them to me this morning."

"Including the anonymous one?"

"Yes."

That was the appropriate place to send fan mail, Booth assured himself. The lack of a stamp was still somewhat troubling, but at a major publishing house thousands of people passed through the doors each day. And, her publisher was located in New York, not DC.

While he was ruminating, she had sorted quickly through the twelve remaining letters and selected another that screamed for attention in bold, colorful markings all along the borders. The note emerged from its envelope in a mini explosion of pink and aqua fireworks, opened to a cluster of words scrawled in large, bubbly handwriting with hearts over the i's and sketches of bones lining the margins.

A childish, heartfelt offering.

_Dear Dr. Brennan,_

_My mom says I should call you that because you worked really hard to become a doctor and you earned that and so I'm taking my mom's advise. I think you're so smart! I wish I could be like you but I don't think I'll ever be as smart as you. I want to be a scientist when I grow up even though math is really hard for me. _

_Do you like algebra?_

_I hate it._

_If I want to be an anthropologist, do I have to like algebra? I really hope I can skip that part._

_Please right back,_

_Kendra_

Swallowing down a surprising surge of sympathy that had crept up his throat as he read the unguarded admiration (as well as the algebra angst because well did he remember his own ancient and desperate slog through the brutal subject), he carefully handed this most precious letter back to her. And cleared his throat, because it wasn't manly to let emotion creep into one's voice. "You know, you're not going to be able to answer them all but if any deserve a response, it'll be the letters like this one ... A word from you could change her life."

Responding as if he'd just placed a heavy burden upon them, Brennan's shoulders slumped. "I was afraid you'd say that."

"You don't want to?"

If the first letter made his skin crawl, this second one had the same effect on her, but for entirely different reasons. "I don't know what to say."

Patting her knee, Booth nodded towards the glitter sparkling a trail from his lap to hers. "Just tell her she should stay in school, study hard, learn to like algebra."

"And learn to spell - there are several errors..."

"Bones, just be kind. Okay?"

"I am being kind." The teacher was never very far away from the blackboard, it seemed. She puffed impatiently, leveling an almost scandalized glare at the perceived atrocity of letting known errors slide by. "How else will she learn?"

"The point is to thank her for writing, not grade her work."

"Why?"

Oh, right, the eternal _why_? Of course they could never stray too far from that question, either. "Imagine if you wrote to..." he paused, trying to imagine someone a young Temperance Brennan might have idolized. "...Margaret Mead when you were a kid."

"I wouldn't have," she protested, interrupting him.

So not the point, but leave it to her crazed rationalism to completely derail his argument before it even got started. "Assume for the sake of argument that you did."

"But that would be an unproductive endeavor for both of us. What could I have written at that age that would be of any possible use or interest to such an accomplished scientist?"

"This kid wrote to you," he reminded her, "because she admires you."

"And it's pointless," she asserted with the raised brow and lifted chin that assured him he was never going to convince her otherwise.

Trying not to let frustration creep into his irked redirection, Booth pushed out a little laugh ahead of his challenge. "Bones, haven't you ever just admired someone?"

"Yes." The reply, coming so swiftly and softly, sweeping them both out in such an unexpected direction, caused his stomach to plunge and somersault rather pleasantly. "I admire you."

How could she do it so easily, turn him inside out with just a few words? His tongue was still touching the top of his last spoken word, his voice catching on surprise while his brain caught up to the opportunity in the tightly bound bundle of explanation flayed open by what she'd just admitted. The way she looked at him sometimes, the way she was glancing at him now, half hesitant and yet paradoxically direct. "You do?"

"Yes."

She wasn't going to elaborate.

His ego was screaming for more, and common sense shook its finger, reminding him it wasn't wise to ask for more.

And then she did elaborate, an unsolicited and obvious comment that said so much more than the mere words. "You're good with people; I'm ... not."

Her eyes glinted like silver coins in a fountain, flashing brightly from an unmeasured depth, luring him with the promise of an easy capture that might actually make him drown if he dared to dive in after them. He sensed how easy it would be to just lean in and take the offering, but knew if he actually went in he might never climb back out again.

Because he wanted to reassure her that she was fine, whisper promises that she was perfect and if nobody else ever noticed how wonderful she was that was nothing but a win for him. Seeley Booth knew she was more of a prize than she realized, so much more than a man like him deserved. In moments of quiet reflection he could look into that shimmering pool and admit that he wanted Temperance Brennan and then look away with determination to keep that secret locked away for the sake of partnership. Then she would say something like this, tempt him to discard prudence and jump in anyway.

She would look at him like this and he would wonder if she wanted him to.

Temptation flashed under his skin, heating him, scalding dangerously across the surface of his consciousness. Booth leaped up, stumbling in his haste to retreat. "Whoa, hey, look at the time!"

Hurt flashed in her eyes. He saw it the instant before they fell away, the way his sudden withdrawal only seemed to confirm her worst fears. Nothing he could say would make it any less dangerous to stay even another minute tonight.

Brennan watched him gather up his suit jacket, the tie slithering loosely half out of the pocket while he hopped awkwardly into his loafers. It seemed to be the slippery neck tie that drew her over to him, her focus intent on its rescue rather than any notion of staying her fleeing friend. But then she reached out to tug it free, holding the soft silk binding up to him as a sort of peace offering. "I'm sorry."

His heart churned again, twisting again at the vulnerability she would only ever let him see.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he promised. The tie was in his hand, its custody released to him. "I just realized, you know, I've got an early meeting. Gotta get to work early. And it's late..."

He'd stayed far later, when they both had early starts and even earlier flights on tap. Her nod, so small, showed him she was better with him than she realized. The desire to kiss that doubt away drove him straight to her door.

Once there, however, a competing desire made him pause to risk one last question. "Bones, when do you take out your recycling?"

"Thursday nights. Why?"

Better safe than sorry, wasn't that the rule? Keeping her safe (even from him) was the reason he was leaving, but keeping her safe in general was pretty much the reason he did everything else these days, and with that letter still polluting his thoughts... The safe thing to do was make no hasty assumptions regarding intent with so little information to go on. There was no harm in keeping it a little while longer when it was just paper printed with unsavory words. "I don't want you to recycle that letter."

"You want me to throw it away instead?"

"No, I want you to keep it, just in case."

"You told me to shred it," she objected.

"I changed my mind."

He could see her bafflement over the seemingly sudden concern. "Why?"

_My gut..._ Not that he could tell her that. "Just humor me. Okay?"

Not that she would be satisfied with that, either. "I fail to see how your amusement has anything to do with the disposal of an obscene letter."

"Something is telling me we need to keep that letter."

"Your gut," she taunted, just waiting to skewer it on the rapier of her rational dismissal.

Time to pull out the big guns he decided, and leaned towards her with all his weapons of persuasion aimed right at her. The charm smile rarely failed him, even with the woman who swore she was immune to it. "Bones... you admire my way with people, isn't that what you said...?"

"I knew you'd use that against me," she muttered. But she was smiling and unconsciously leaning toward him, because his charm smile rarely failed and she wouldn't admit it even while she quite regularly surrendered to its power.

"My gut is telling me we should hang on to that letter for a while."

Her resistance was weakening. "Your intestines do not possess intelligence."

A step closer, their eyes clinging in ways that weren't fair to either one of them. It was so hard to be this close, to want this much and know it could never happen. It was probably even more cruel to use his charm on Brennan in particular, given how easy it could be to mislead this slightly naïve woman who trusted him so much. Wrong as it was, he felt no guilt at using their attraction in his favor if it would help keep her safe from wolves that posed a greater danger than he did.

"Bones, please."

God, this was a dangerous game. He knew it.

So did she.

She swerved first. "Fine. Whatever."

They both released breaths they didn't know they were holding.

"Lock the door," he told her.

Eye rolling, something he never taught her but she picked it up somewhere. "Good night, Booth."

Not possible. Since he was leaving her, the 'good' part was already over; but at least he was glad to hear the deadbolt snick tight after she shut him out.

~Q~

* * *

**Scientific Note:** (You didn't think I'd skip this part, did you...?)

Information regarding the proper handling and investigation into documents of questioned authorship was and will continue to be provided by the following:

1) Virginia Department of Forensic Science; Questioned Documents Procedures Manual; p 1-46; Issue Date: 6-February-2012.  
(A 'how-to' manual detailing how documents are to be processed and handled by _scientists_ in the lab.)

2) O'Hara, Charles E & Gregory L O'Hara; "_Documentary Evidence_," Fundamentals of Criminal Investigation, 6th edition; 1994; pages 893-950.  
(A look at 'what is possible' to learn from a document from the _investigator's_ point of view. This book is very out of date scientifically, but I felt it best represents Booth's likely understanding of and approach to the evidentiary potential of an anonymous letter.)

All mistakes are mine.

**Author's Note:** This story is going to have a slow pace for now because of all the research I'm working on while I draw up a different plot. That's the bad news, but the good news (for you readers) is that the story is already quite a bit longer than I intended it to be.


	3. A Star is Born

**Author's Note:** Did you know that writers give themselves away in their writing? It's true. What any person writes is like a map of their mind, the themes they choose, the words they use, complexity, grammar, phrasing ... all of it is distinct. It can show a good analyst exactly who the writer is as a person.

~Q~

* * *

**Fan Mail - A Star is Born**

* * *

"This is ridiculous. Why can't I do this," he heard her muttering as Booth walked into Brennan's office the next evening. She was scowling at the computer screen, brow pinched, and when she sensed him coming in and lifted her eyes up to his curious expression, she looked more relieved than embarrassed. That in itself was unusual when his partner was typically loathe to admit to any deficiency in her abilities.

He didn't even have to ask. Before he'd taken another step, Brennan had already spilled her worries right out into the open.

"I can write a five thousand word chapter in a day. I can write three doctoral dissertations in less than a year. But writing a simple thank you note takes me..." she glanced at her computer, apparently running a calculation in her head, and then groaned "...over four hours!"

"Why," he laughed.

"What do I say?"

"Just thank you...?"

"That's inadequate. I'm supposed to indicate my gratitude in a way that is personal and meaningful."

"Okay," he agreed, wondering if he should imagine quotation marks around that description. "Who are you thanking?"

Brennan gestured to the glittering pink and aqua note she'd received from her hopeful young fan, Kendra, and sighed. "I've written and erased fifty seven different responses, because they sound officious, pretentious, cold, overbearing."

"Whoa, stop." She did, frowning at his premature halt of her self-directed tirade, looking for either an explanation or permission to proceed. He gestured to her computer. "That's it right there."

"What is?"

Leaning down to tap the note, Booth offered the most counter-intuitive advice he'd ever thought up. "Tell Kendra how much trouble you're having writing her back. Admit you've never done it before and you don't know what to say."

"Mentors must never be uncertain," Brennan objected. "You've indicated she perceives me as a mentor so I should project an air of confidence."

"About anthropology and authorship, sure. But when it comes to dealing with fans and public adulation, you're still a newbie."

"Newbie?"

"New at it. You're a novice at being a star."

"I am not a plasma sphere undergoing the continuing process of thermonuclear fusion whereby hydrogen is converted into helium."

Sometimes he wondered if she was deliberately obtuse and snotty just to annoy him. Brennan had her skeptical, refuse-to-see-the-metaphor hat firmly in place today. So he leaned in closer, getting right into her space until she leaned back in her seat.

"Celebrity. Public figure. Just as famous outside of academia as you are inside your little anthropology circle."

Their eyes held. He skimmed the striations of hers, noting ripples of pewter streaking the silver, noting the inner band of golden green ringing her pupil, something only seen when he got really close. Too close ... she was his partner so he wasn't supposed to be this close but she smelled like lemon ... antiseptic and a hint of decay. Booth pulled himself back with a little self-admonishment and an outward excuse for his rapid retreat. "You worked a fleshy one today, didn't you."

Surprised at his accurate assessment of her earlier activity, Brennan's eyes darted towards the door, but she nodded and screwed her mouth into a model of delicate distaste. "Dr. Saroyan insisted I accompany her into the pathology suite after lunch so I could examine some of the exposed skeletal elements in situ. Even with the reverse-flow air filters, the putrefaction was intolerable."

"Coming from you, I'll just thank God it wasn't my case," Booth decided. Brennan's ability to endure unholy stenches rivaled just about any sewer worker he'd ever met. Rare indeed were the moments when she betrayed discomfort or deigned to smear Vick's Vapo-rub under her nose. "Who brought in the body?"

"Virginia State Police," she shrugged, then tilted her head curiously as she deduced the latest body would not be one of Booth's cases. "Why are you here?"

"Well, I was here to..." _check up on you before I skip out and hook up with_ "...yeah, uh, no reason. Just ... saying hello."

"Oh. Hello."

"Hi."

A long, awkward pause. Brennan shifted her jaw, Booth shifted his weight. Two scientists strolled past her door, jabbering about a chromatograph.

"Yeah, so, uh, I'll just..." He thumbed his way backwards, pointing out the exit as he backpedaled.

"Booth."

"What?"

"Will you help me write this letter?"

"Well, I ..." _have plans to go burn off some of this..._ Her hope-filled glance tore through those plans like a pink pearl eraser vigorously applied to a mistake. (Which it was, he conceded. A huge mistake.) There was nothing more irresistible on this earth than her eyes and he was routinely grateful that she had no idea. "Yeah, okay. I'll help."

"Thank you."

But he hadn't taken more than a single step back her way when a knock on the door frame drew their attention. One of the Jeffersonian security staff stood just outside the door, bearing a squared basket of miniature pink roses. "This just arrived for you, Doctor Brennan."

Now? Well past seven in the evening... Uneasily, Booth raised a brow towards his partner, watched her pinch her lips and rise, reluctantly, to cross over and take the flower arrangement. "It's after hours," she noted, her pitch raising a question.

The guard shrugged. "It just arrived at the front desk a couple of minutes ago, by courier. We had to unlock the door for him."

"Is there some special occasion I don't know about?" Booth deliberately injected joviality to cover the fact that his investigative instincts were once again clawing at the door, anxious to be let free. Or was it just jealousy? The mini riot of roses must have cost a fortune.

She didn't answer. Taking a folded note out of the arrangement, Brennan's countenance grew more troubled as her eyes darted up to meet his. "It's anonymous, block printing."

"The same as that letter?" Inwardly he was cursing himself for not swiping the anonymous note out of her bin when she wasn't looking.

Even though she answered, "I don't think so," she gave it up without a fight, both the coincidence and the latest note.

He let her hold on to the flowers while he took the paper gingerly with a pair of latex gloves that she helpfully handed over for that very purpose. The plain envelope bore only her name in care of the Jeffersonian National Museum of Natural History and a stamped return address for the florist (_Flowers on 14th_, delightfully alliterative as well as located conveniently within walking distance). The note within was quickly scripted in slanting capital letters that bore little resemblance to the hand-written raunch of the previous note.

SWEETHEART, YOU WORK TOO HARD AND TOO LONG.

That was all, and he noted the handwriting appeared quite different from the previous note despite being all capital letters. "Who delivered this," Booth demanded of the security officer still waiting around because he'd picked up on Brennan's tension immediately as well.

Noting his own instincts were correct, Officer Newel reached for his radio. "A courier from the florist. We thought it was a little out of the ordinary, too, so we captured the video feed in case anyone wanted to check. You want to do that now?"

"Yes." Oh, absolutely he was going to go check it now. While Newel relayed his anticipated accompaniment with the Special Agent, Booth strode towards the door, leaving her to glare at his retreating back.

"What am I supposed to do with these," Brennan called out, gesturing with the unwelcome flowers.

Halting just long enough to glance back, he ordered, "Keep them for now."

"But I don't want them. I don't even like pink."

A laugh gusted out and Booth shook his head. Leave it to Bones to be most offended over the feminine color rather than everything else that was wrong with those flowers and what the note implied about their sender. "Just for a few minutes because I'm taking them into evidence as soon as I get back. Okay?"

"That isn't necessary."

The hell it wasn't. Yes indeed, he was literally making a Federal case out of this. Seeing the mutiny brewing in her fearless eyes, Booth wondered if that was what drew him to her so much, how someone so brilliant could also be breathtakingly reckless with her own safety. Protecting her (from herself half the time) was usually contingent on convincing her danger existed in the first place. It might be a hard sell unless he spelled out the reasons why most women would be freaking out already. "He knows where your books are published, he knows where you work. That's bad enough. But this..." he gestured with the note still in his hand "...shows that he knows that you're still in here after seven pm. He's watching the building."

"You're speculating," she accused, and everyone who knew Brennan knew how she felt about idle speculation. "The handwriting isn't the same. Plus, I work long hours and have indicated such during interviews. Statistically I'd be more likely to be at Jeffersonian at this time of day than anywhere else."

"Well _someone_ knows you're here right now." Same one or someone else; either way, he did not like it one bit. Holding her gaze, he stepped right up to her and made his conditions clear. "You are not leaving this lab without me tonight."

Outrage first, right on schedule. Narrowed eyes and a hardening of her jaw, she shook her head and left him in no doubt of the battle she fully intended to engage if he dared to try and clip her wings.

"We are not going to argue about this." Speaking softly but implacable in his insistence, Booth preempted all of her anticipated objections with a pointed purpose. "Because we are going back to your apartment and you will give me that letter. You still have it?"

A silent battle ensued between them, and it might have gone on indefinitely had Officer Newel not received a radio call asking him if he could meet Stephens in the life safety room to check out an alarm that kept going off. "Sir," Newel spoke, breaking the spell between partners. "I need to..."

"Yeah, I'm coming," Booth assured him, stepping back from her. He let his eyes drift over her features, sliding down her slender nose to land delicately on her lower lip that still pursed out in a little pout.

Sensing where his gaze had gone, Brennan's quirky sense of humor chose to poke its head out at that moment. "What if I shredded it?"

"Then we're gonna spend the night together," he threatened with a silky purr. "Side by side all night..."

Her eyes widened at the sultry promise.

"...taping it back together."

"Oh," she exhaled, backing up a step. "It's a good thing I didn't listen to you, then."

When did she ever listen to him? But for once it might have worked out in their favor because he didn't know how long he could endure sitting right next to her and not... "So you still have it?"

She nodded, retreating to set the pink flowers as far away from her desk as possible. Her glance fell on the glittering envelope from young Kendra and her determination to deal with it on her own seemed to solidify. By the time Booth reached the door she had returned to her original ordeal: writing a simple thank you note. He suspected it might not feel like quite so insurmountable a task to write the note solo, now that her independence was being threatened by pretty pink flowers.

~Q~

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**Author's Note:** In case you didn't know, I am an evil writer. Evil writers are like clever criminals - we love covering our tracks with a little bit of misdirection. :P


	4. Night Shift

**Author's Note:** If the previous note left you feeling a bit paranoid and distrustful, good! Welcome to Booth's frame of mind for this story. :P

Also, sorry for the late update; Fan Fiction was not cooperating yesterday.

~Q~

* * *

**Fan Mail - Night Shift  
**

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Turning to follow after Newel, Booth found himself catching a series of amused glances from the silent security guard, who evidently knew better than to volunteer his personal opinion. That didn't stop Booth from finally snapping "What!" after the fourth furtive little peek.

Newel chuckled and shook his head. "I didn't believe it," he confided with a shrug, "but seeing is believing."

"Believe what?"

Booth knew Officer Newel had worked at the Jeffersonian for years and probably knew all the players and the personalities one had to navigate in order to provide safety and service to people well used to getting their way most of the time. Evidently that included his partner, judging by the way the security officer shrugged and tossed an off-hand answer. "That anyone could tame Doctor Brennan."

"Tame her? What does that mean, she's not a tiger."

"Once she gets going...?" Newel's smile was surprisingly fond as he shook his head and admitted to potential error. "Eh, perhaps I'm wrong then, but it looked like you talked her out of getting angry."

"That wasn't angry," Booth laughed.

"I know," Newell agreed. "Not even close. Have you ever seen her go off on someone?"

Booth halted, thinking back to her eyes flashing forked lightning and the fire flushing over her lovely face as she tore her wrist free and slammed her other fist directly into his cheek. Oh, he'd seen her furious, all right, and a more memorable sight he could not recall even though his cheek had ached for days afterward.

The other man had halted as well, waiting patiently for Booth to shake out of his reverie and when he did, it was to eye the uniformed officer warily. "You've seen Doctor Brennan angry?"

"Yeah," the older man laughed. "Don't mess with her ancient remains, you know? A rookie on the loading dock sent the Mayan warrior she was expecting over to the Native American Museum by mistake about a year ago."

"Hmmm." Booth resumed his path down the hall, wondering what the other security officers might have to say about his partner's temper; wondering, too, why this particular officer seemed so ... interested in her. His hackles were raised, everyone falling under suspicion when Bones was under threat.

"Don't get me wrong," Newel continued, "the guy was an idiot. He didn't read the paperwork and the remains were damaged. She was hoppin' mad but can't blame her, really. It shouldn't have happened."

"What happened to the rookie?"

"Fired."

He halted again, shocked. "Bones got the guy fired?"

"Naw, the guy got himself fired. He was already on thin ice and then he went and pissed off Doctor Brennan. Around here everybody knows you take extra care of Doctor Brennan."

Well now, there was something he'd never heard before. Not just the words, but the complete lack of sarcasm surprised him. "Why?"

"Because she's here all the time." An oddly affectionate cadence warmed the words, beckoning Booth to follow Newel into the stairwell where they spiraled down from the second floor. He was alert, curious to hear more and Newel did not disappoint. "I mean, yeah, you piss her off and she's hell on earth for a while. But late at night, when it's quiet ... she's nice. She talks to us; she's the only one that does."

"Talks to you?" Bones, who could be arrogant to the point of inviting her own death by strangulation, was chatting up the lowly security staff late at night?

"Yeah. Me. Micah. (Micah loves her; he works the grave shift.) Stephens said she gave him twenty bucks once when he mentioned he was nearly out of gas."

Dr. Temperance Brennan, who never met a cop she couldn't forget five minutes later, had made fans out of the Jeffersonian's security officers? _And_ helped them out with cash donations?! "Who else," Booth marveled.

"Osman, Clarence, all of us who aren't on the day shift." Pushing through the doors onto the ground floor, Newel seemed to gather his thoughts into a bundle and then consider them carefully for a moment. Finally, coming to a decision, he nodded.

And spoke again.

"For the day guys it's just a job dealing with the public, but for those of us who are here at night, it's completely different. It's quiet, we work with the building not with people. The ones who want to work at night are a different breed because of that. Doctor Brennan is one of the big PhDs but she's here late at night, most nights, just doing what she does. Identifying people. She works at night and that makes her one of us."

"One of you..."

"Yeah." He shrugged, suddenly sheepish. "It's a lonely job at night, Agent Booth. Most of us on the night shift have worked here for years, and so has Doctor Brennan. We get to know each other after so long, that's all."

"And this Micah guy is in love with her?"

"What? No!" Newel laughed at the notion and shook his head. "Nothing like that. He's just really fond of her. You know, brotherly. Like that. He brings her muffins because he knows she doesn't eat. Stephens takes her coffee. Me, I brought an extra charging station for her I-pod. We all have our little ways of looking out for Doctor Brennan."

It was a lot to think about, and more than a little surprising as well: his persnickety partner was nice enough to the night shift to have earned their loyalty and yet she was routinely rude and dismissive towards law enforcement at crime scenes. Such a contradiction seemed improbable. Then again, she'd infamously declared _"only the best and the brightest go to the Jeffersonian"_ in front of fifty FBI techs, so probably she included both scientists and security staff in that opinion.

How hilarious if her elitism extended even to lowly security officers, so long as they were employed by the Jeffersonian. She might trust the security staff, but that didn't mean that Special Agent Booth would extend the same courtesy. Given that Bones was a notoriously bad judge of character, how competent were these people really, and was one of them a little too fond of her...?

"So what's the deal on that alarm you're supposed to help out with," Booth inquired, deciding it might not be a bad idea to chat up the security officers himself. If last year with Special Agent Jamie Kent had taught him anything, it was to never trust anyone else with his partner's safety.

"Eh, probably nothing. One of the H-VAC panels keeps signalling that a compressor is out. It's a pain in the neck 'cause we have to go inspect the unit every time the alarm goes off even though there's nothing wrong with the compressor."

"Why do you have to check if you know there's nothing wrong?"

"Because this is a museum." As if that explained everything, which it didn't, because Booth was not a squint or an air-conditioning mechanic (or whatever the term). It was a stretch for him to even know that "H-VAC" meant air conditioning for large buildings, a fact he could only attribute to his reluctant association with Jack Hodgins. The soils expert had waxed rhapsodic over the spoils and soils to be found in an HVAC (High Volume Air Conditioning) filter.

Seeing Booth's exasperation at the squinty-sounding non-explanation, Newel must have realized he would have to elaborate. "Everything is climate-controlled in here: temperature, humidity, air pressure, even the gas ratios. It's a delicate balance to keep the artifacts in optimum condition so if one of the panels actually goes out, it can cause a lot of damage to the artifacts on open display. Anyway, we're supposed to get an electrician in here tomorrow to fix it."

Officer Newel delivered Booth to the security office tucked just inside the Constitution Avenue entrance, introducing him briskly to his fellow security officer ensconced at the desk before heading back out to the life safety room and that troubled alarm. Once Newel had departed to the Jeffersonian's nerve center, that left the discomfited FBI Agent to scowl at a taciturn Officer Tadesse, who inclined his head stiffly before turning back towards the bank of video monitors under his watchful eye.

It was only a few months ago that one of the Jeffersonian's own security staff had twice abducted a skeleton - much to Brennan's outspoken outrage - and when he'd remarked to Dr. Goodman on the need for better employee screening, the dignified doctor had actually snorted in contempt.

_"Ironic, given we contract that out to the FBI."_

Yeah, okay, vetting the skeleton thief might not have been the FBI's finest hour. This officer, however, seemed to be an admirable upgrade. Booth had to admit the North African man was keenly alert and not prone to distraction.

He spooled expertly through the feed and assured Booth that standard procedure had been followed. The courier was met at the door, the flowers delivered into the care of security, and the transaction logged as required in the post orders that detailed daily operating procedures for all security officers at the Jeffersonian. Also noted in the security log was the courier's explanation that he was sent by a florist located near Logan's Circle, _Flowers on 14th_. Checking the little envelope stamped in his hand, Booth found the name given by the courier matched the stamp, as did the video-captured name tag on the young deliveryman's uniform. So far, everything was consistent.

A florist had sent over the flowers, but the timing was still suspect.

"Do you normally accept after hour deliveries?"

"No sir, we do not. However, we are in autumn extended hours this month and the courier arrived just as we were locking the doors for the night. He claimed the delivery was marked urgent, to arrive at seven pm, but he was held up by an accident on H Street."

"So he got here late," Booth conceded. The museum's store closed and locked its doors at 7:30 pm during extended hours. But the originator had known about extended hours and that Brennan was likely to still be at work tonight. That left only one last question, partially a follow-up to all that Newel had revealed about his partner and the people who surrounded her here at night. "You know Doctor Brennan?"

"Yes, sir. It was the only reason I accepted the flowers this late."

"So she does get special treatment," Booth probed.

The older man's face betrayed nothing but caution, a wariness as he examined his opponent for motive. Booth suddenly felt as if he were facing a much sharper adversary than he'd expected to find in a swing shift security guard.

"Look, I get it. She's difficult." Booth offered absolution with a low chuckle and then waited to see what would happen.

But Officer Tadesse didn't bite or show any interest in such commiseration. He pinched his lips tightly into a frown and shook his head, his dark eyes piercing with disapproval. "That has not been my experience."

"Well, what have you experienced then?"

"Kindness and acceptance." The softly stated rebuttal ended there, leaving Booth with little else to go on. And that might have been intentional. Officer Tadesse studied the video capture of the transaction still stalled on the monitor then turned that expert scrutiny back onto Booth once more. The assessment he received, so thorough, alerted Booth to the possibility that Tadesse's skill at reading people rivaled his own. "Something about these flowers is troubling you...?"

"Yeah," Booth admitted. "Just don't have much to go on yet." Nothing but coincidence, timing, and a bad feeling.

"I will remain watchful," Tadesse vowed.

And Booth would be watching Tadesse, for there seemed to be a great deal more depth to him than what the surface suggested.

~Q~

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**Scientific Note:** Here we go again ... I am indebted to the following for providing me with information on building management and maintenance of museum environments.

Michalski, Stephan. _The Ideal Climate: Risk Management, the ASHRAE Chapter, Proofed Fluctuations, and Toward a Full Risk Analysis Model_; Contribution to the Experts' Roundtable on Sustainable Climate Management Strategies held on April 2007 in Tenerife, Spain. The Ghetty Conservation Institute. (The word 'climate' in this context refers to temperature and humidity inside museums.)

Schneider Electric Building Management Services, especially for detailed information on HVAC, lighting, security and electrical systems.  
www . schneider-electric . com

American Building Maintenance, for information on contracted building maintenance and security staff. They have offices in Seattle as well as Washington DC.  
www . ABM . com

Smithsonian Office of Facilities Management and Reliability (OFMR) for information on maintenance of the museums and climate controls for the exhibits. (For the record, I'm basing operations of Brennan's "Jeffersonian" on the actual Smithsonian Institution (upon which the Jeffersonian Institute is modeled), and the National Museum of Natural History, which actually does contract forensic anthropologists to the FBI.)  
www . facilities . si . edu / smithsonian-facilities

All mistakes are mine.

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**Author's Note:** With regard to the 'canonization' of Brennan here, I've taken clues from _Doctor in the Photo_ (when Brennan talks to the security guard Micah Legat & indicates she has known him for nine years) plus _Shot in the Dark_ (where Brennan calls out to the security guard, Hal, by name and says she doesn't have time to talk). These two episodes establish that Brennan does know and speak to the night-time security officers.


	5. No Contact

**Author's Note:** A simple thanks to all who have reviewed, marked this as a favorite or are following along. Thanks to the silent readers, too. :D The last chapter was tame and slow but told you some things you needed to know. This chapter will probably be more to your liking.

~Q~

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**Fan Mail - No Contact  
**

* * *

Nothing seemed wrong with the delivery method, which meant tracing the order with the florist tomorrow. Although something was telling him to find out a little more about the security staff (especially that too-wise Tadesse), Booth knew it wasn't much to go on, either. Just one of those gut feelings, which were rarely wrong but not always clear until hindsight set in. He retraced his steps back up to the second floor, down the corridor and back into the medico-legal lab, where Bones had made little headway herself. He found her still facing her monitor with a frown and that little wrinkle that folded her left brow when she was particularly frustrated.

She looked up, rather too hopefully, when he wandered directly over to her spurned flowers and considered his options.

"Are you still taking them?"

Two tiny shrubs of miniature roses were boxed in a white, wicker basket, large enough to attract attention yet small enough to fit on a table without taking over. The pink buds were rather dainty, delicate and feminine, and nothing at all like the robust woman they were meant to please. He'd known at a glance that the secret admirer had guessed wrong when sending these and, (much to his reluctant amusement), her eagerness to be well rid of them only confirmed that fact.

"Probably not," he decided, now that he was satisfied that a florist had sent them. He would just photograph them and keep the card and whatever else he turned up tomorrow.

He thought it might be disappointment more than curiosity that he heard in her question. "The delivery was legitimate?"

"Yep. The courier was dressed in a uniform that matches the florist on the card. I'll check out the shop in the morning, see if we can trace the buyer."

"So I can go home by myself," she decided.

"Nope."

"Booth..."

"I need that note."

"They weren't even written by the same person."

"Oh," he snorted. "Now you're a handwriting analysis expert?"

"You really need an expert to tell you that a left-handed person used a Paper-mate pen to write the note on the flowers?"

His mouth opened, then shut. Impossible. She was impossible. "Well what do we even need the FBI for? We'll just bring everything to you."

"I'm too busy."

And she was totally serious, too.

Annoyed/amused (yes, he needed to invent hyphenated words to describe the contradictory state of mind she left him in most often), Booth glanced down at the slanted script, surprised to note that it did show signs of smudging, with a downward droop slooping low along the right side. But a Paper-mate pen? How the hell did she notice handedness in the few seconds she'd looked at it, let alone narrow the writing instrument down to a particular brand? He shouldn't be surprised; he wasn't, really, because she did stuff like this all the time.

But just because she was (possibly) right didn't mean he was wrong. As brilliant as she was in observing minutia, Bones ran into trouble the moment she tried to gather any sense of human motivation.

This was all about motivation, and he was taking no chances.

"That doesn't mean they didn't originate from the same person," he reminded her. "In fact, I want to take a closer look at the letters you answered last year."

"Why?"

"One of them may be the first real contact you had with this guy. And speaking of..." He walked over to her laptop where the answer to Kendra remained only half-formed, and decisively deleted it.

"That took me hours to write!"

"You're not answering any more fan letters."

A tempest was brewing now that he'd forbidden it, even though she'd been complaining about completing the chore less than an hour ago. Beware the wrath of a raging Temperance, he reminded himself as her stormy eyes washed him in outrage and her lips compressed into a horizontal squall-line. His partner was pissed and eerily quiet, rising from her seat and stalking past him to snatch her jacket from its hook before sweeping out ahead of him, leaving him to flounder alone in the undertow.

Once again, Seeley Booth was chasing after Temperance Brennan and he wondered sardonically if that made him a stalker, too. (Except, stalkers usually didn't turn out lights, lock up doors and find their quarry waiting for them at the parking garage entrance with arms crossed and foot tapping.) "I'm driving my own car," she insisted.

And he let her.

Just so he could gain some leverage for winning the next battle. (Not to mention the fact that it would be more peaceful for them both if she cooled off by herself.)

Once home, Brennan grumbled all the way to her door, keyed the lock, let them both in. And yet as much as she resisted every step they'd taken from the car to the door, she turned the moment it was open and asked if he was staying.

"The night?" More than a little shocked at the suggestion, Booth let a grin grace his lips for a moment at the prospect. "Are you inviting me...?"

"No," and furthermore, she was now regarding him as one might examine a particularly damaged bit of bruised fruit. Where did that soft spot in his head come from and why hadn't she noticed it before? "I assumed you would be inviting yourself."

Her arms crossed again, and she was looking away, worried over how much personal liberty he might remove from her based on what she perceived was simply a whim of alpha-male posturing. She didn't want him to spend the night; she didn't want to give up so much control.

"We're not there yet, Bones." Not at a point where he would need to spend the night, nor at a point where she would want him to. He shook his head, knowing he was speaking innuendos and wondering which one she would alert to. "When I stayed before ... someone shot at you, the threat was real. For now, we're not there yet."

Relieved, and probably not just because it was nice to be assured no one would try to kill her tonight, she nodded and relaxed. "So then if there's no threat, why are you following me?"

"Maybe I just like to chase you." Whoa, did he just say that out loud?

Her shocked amusement indicated that, indeed, he did. "You do?"

"Yeah, I do." Might as well admit it.

Her arms dropped to her sides as Brennan stepped closer, noting his changed preference with a husky whisper. "I thought you preferred to catch."

"I love catching my quarry," he agreed darkly, and wondered why he kept playing with fire in the form of flirting with her. Every time he got near her lately it seemed he couldn't stop himself from leaning, teasing, watching, waiting... "But first the chase, then the catch."

She was beautiful, the way her breath caught and her silvery eyes sparked in the dark of her dimly lit living-room. "You're chasing me?"

"I am." He was admitting that, too. Yes, he was chasing her - he'd begun the moment they met.

It stunned her. He watched his words burn their way into her consciousness, watched her breathing speed up and her body coil tightly against the onslaught of adrenaline.

"Are you gonna keep running from me, Bones?"

"I'm not running," she reminded him softly, ever literal and slightly winded. As if she'd just stopped running. "I'm standing right here."

"Yes, you are." Too dangerous, again. She was standing right in front of him, tense with anticipation; all he would have to do is take one step closer and then he'd cross the line between flirting and falling. Instead, Booth let his eyes tease her, let it become just a joke (denying the greater part of him that wanted to stop the chase right then and there) because he sensed she wasn't ready. "You're standing here when you should be getting me those letters."

Her eyes hazed with confusion and he sensed an entirely different kind of danger when she drew herself backwards and retreated to retrieve the letters she still had at home. He had to be crazy to be sending her such mixed signals knowing she would not be able to interpret them. Staying by her door - it was too dangerous to let himself go any further - he blew out a slow breath to release tension. He was so busy reminding himself to behave appropriately that her question startled him.

"Aren't you coming in for a drink, at least?"

"I..." Gulping before any liquid had gotten anywhere near his gullet, Booth froze up. "Well, I was just gonna drop in to see you safely home and get those letters."

"Oh." Did she sound disappointed? Brennan had scooped up the letters and now she was coming back towards him. He watched a shaft of lamplight spill across her cheek and hair as she passed through it, the soft yellowish glow turning her briefly golden. This ambient light, evening light, was what those night time security officers saw her in. A raw, seething jealousy lashed through him, followed by self-reproach and then another shout from his instincts to keep watch over her guardians.

All of them.

(Himself included.)

Suddenly, he needed a drink after all.

"You know, maybe one won't hurt." He backpedaled right back into her living space, swinging the door shut and latching it. Turning to find her stalled a foot away and quizzical at his sudden swings, Booth favored her with a charm smile dialed up to level three (just enough to soothe, but not enough wattage to alert her to his ulterior motives).

"Okay," she agreed, tentatively passing the letters and spinning back towards the kitchen. "Beer? Bourbon?"

"Ya got any soda or coffee?" He proposed beverages more likely to keep him awake, to keep his mind sharp. (Not to mention keeping his more primitive urges well contained.)

"Yes. Which do you want?" Standing poised between a cabinet and her refrigerator, Brennan waited for him to decide. That always seemed to be the way of it these days. He would flirt and she would hint, and one of them was always waiting for a decision of some kind that never seemed to materialize. No decisive action, only dangerous drifting...

...closer and closer...

...with alcohol smoothing the way half the time.

"Coffee."

Considering what he'd planned to probe her about, he needed a sharp mind anyway.

While she puttered around in the kitchen, scooping and clattering things, he laced his fingers together and stretched, feeling knuckles crackle and a rush of blood release the tension lurking under his shoulder blades. It had to come out casual, barely interested. "So, uh, those security guards seem to know you pretty well."

"I guess."

Right. Casual and barely interested. He shook his head at his own, too conversational approach and tried for something a little more direct. "I met the guy at the security office, can't remember his name, though. Taddy...?" (Just to see if she knew it.)

"Ta-_deh_-see," Brennan corrected. "It's Ethiopian."

"He's ... he seems like a sharp guy."

"He is."

Nothing else. He even waited, but Brennan had lapsed into her teeth-pulling mode, where all efforts at conversation were going to require pliers and a bit of twisting. "So, you've talked to him?"

"Yes."

_Please don't stop at 'yes,'_ he found himself praying. _Give me something._

A grinding sound interrupted his fervent hope, briefly consuming the ambient silence and perfuming the air with freshly crushed java beans. When the noise stopped, Brennan volunteered something surprising. "He's very well educated. Do you remember...?"

And then she paused.

Silence, heavy and hesitant, so pronounced he could _feel_ her sudden uneasiness.

"Remember what, Bones?"

~Q~

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**Law Enforcement Note:** In most stalking cases, the victim is advised not to contact the stalker in any way, as doing so feeds into the fantasy and can make the stalker more dangerous. Even though he's not sure she's being stalked yet, Booth's paranoid cop side is probably going to make sure she doesn't accidentally make anything worse by replying to letters.

**Author's Note:** Why yes, this is another evil cliffhanger. :P


	6. Ancient History

**Author's Note:** Threats on my life (were made in jest) because I left you all dangling. Here's a rope... for you to grab and climb back up from the cliff edge.

Meanwhile, I'm still catching up on thank you notes for reviews. Thanks as well to all who weren't signed in, your reviews are just as important. :)

~Q~

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**Fan Mail - Ancient History**

* * *

"That morning..."

She had stalled again, leaving him in a state of rapidly advancing worry. What morning? What was she remembering?

Booth was up and in the kitchen within seconds, noting his partner's paralysis seemed to increase as she watched him come towards her. Her eyes widened, shocked almost, staring at a memory he didn't share. The same hesitation that he often spotted on the other side of an interrogation table had taken hold of her now that he was in her line of sight, an internal calculation over what to reveal and what was better left concealed.

"...We talked about it."

It unsettled him, seeing signs of emergent omission in her.

"About what?"

"Ardi."

It wasn't making sense yet, and the way she was reacting had transmitted plenty of caution into him as well. Unfortunately, she had now picked up on his building tension and that seemed to pull her further apart, caused her internal calculations to swing more wildly toward some sort of self preservation. Whatever she was preparing to say was not going to be what she'd initially suggested he might share as a memory.

With nothing left to go on, he could only ask the obvious. "Who is Arty?"

"_Ardipithecus ramidus_."

Right before his eyes, she was disintegrating into science. Even worse, she'd lapsed into Latin. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he hoped to pull her back into English, at least, with a bit of humor. "What is that, apothecaries for sheep?"

Must have been the wrong thing to say. She visibly stiffened, her features shuffling through a range of responses and finally settled upon opaque. Yet from the sudden flurry of physical activity as she poured ground up beans into a filter basket and lowered it into place, pressed a button, placed a pot, he could tell he'd upset her even more. Once the coffee was brewing, she didn't have anything left to distract her and so she stood facing a cabinet while her avoidant eyes took in rectangle lines, tracing the windows covering her crockery and he thought she might be trying to remember something while avoiding the feelings it evoked.

Something about a morning; something about an educated Ethiopian and someone named Arty.

And _he_ was supposed to remember it somehow.

Booth shook his head, baffled, and reached to touch her arm (just to turn her back towards him) but at the snap of electric current that leaped between them she flinched. Abruptly Brennan pushed past him and fled the kitchen. He wondered if that was going to be the end of it but doubted it, and slowly followed her back out to the larger space. Her space, her home. And a slow recognition that he spent most of his free time in her spaces, that he was the only one she ever allowed to come here ... and he knew that because he was almost always here.

(In a place he was suspecting someone else desperately wanted to be.)

But Brennan was putting space between them now, waiting for him. "We talked about it the day you hired me back."

"What?"

Talk about left field...

Armed crossed, across the room, lip undergoing a ferocious mauling between uneasy teeth, she held all the signs of bracing for an impending collision.

Because they had never talked about it.

"That morning the Jeffersonian received a cast reconstruction of _Ardipithecus ramidus_ fossils being kept at the National Museum in Addis Ababa. Tadesse brought it to me from the loading dock. We had talked about it often. He knew I was expecting a cast from Dr. White's team at Berkeley. They sent me a cast of the skull to facilitate morphology comparisons with the exemplars we have here in our Human Origins collection. It took them ten years to secure and scan the bones using computed tomography after extracting them from the surrounding matrix because they were so fragile..."

Nervously she rambled onwards, heedless of his non-reciprocating interest in the topic. But while she spoke Brennan became more animated, her body relaxing as her hands moved and shaped the skull in mid air, the shape of it undoubtedly taking form from her mind's eye. Somehow she never forgot anything she saw. Ever. Years later she could recall tiny details about a room she'd been in only once or an injury she'd seen eight years ago on someone's left posterior rib. It was downright photographic, the way her visual memory recorded things permanently.

That particular skill had solved two cold cases and cemented their partnership in its current incarnation although he'd resisted having her along at first. Taking her with him, turning her mental photography loose on crime scenes, at suspect's homes, on suspects themselves ... it was like having a hidden camera plus a supercomputer at his side. Now that inner commentator had been turned loose on the past, resurrecting details he had long since forgotten despite having seen the skull himself.

As she described the significance of the find, the fact that she'd waited two years after being invited to participate in the research (because it took that long to stabilize the skull bones for CT scanning and then create a cast from the digital reconstruction), that after a wait of years she'd finally taken it into her hands and the entire universe faded away under the elusive wisp of ancient humanity resting in her palms at last, he saw that it was precious and profound and a long-awaited triumph that he'd walked in on that morning. It was a priority that he could not have appreciated then, even if she had tried to explain.

Not that she would have known to try back then, and he never thought to ask.

He could barely grasp it now, when she finally _was_ explaining.

"...Those hominid remains are 4.4 million years old, one of the oldest ancestors of humanity — well, except for _A. kadabba_, which they realized was a separate and much older species a few months after that. After you..."

She was slowing down, the animation fading.

"...called it 'abracadabra.'"

After he'd dismissed what was so important and dragged her back into partnership that prevented her from pursuing what she'd truly wanted.

And there it was, the source of their unease. He couldn't avoid remembering the rest of it now: the firing and how her eyes had captured him when she leaned in to suggest there was nothing stopping them from sex if they didn't work together. How he'd confessed to gambling, signaling theirs would not be a one-night stand and somehow she'd softened, seemed to understand that men don't bare their deepest sins to someone they never plan to see again. A kiss that upended his world but then she left with a laugh over too much Tequila.

By the time he got home, he was so drunk he figured she might have had the right idea.

The hangover had certainly grown when Zack (of all the inept messengers) conveyed how "immensely stupid" he'd been to fire Brennan, but it vanished with Caroline Julian's green light to bring her back in. He'd gone straight to her office, oozing delight, taking in the sight of her and experiencing again a jolt of pleasure just from being near. (Because already, just after a day, he loved being with her.)

_"You're rehired,"_ he'd crowed, only to find a chilly, distracted reception.

_"But I've moved on,"_ she'd said.

And boy did she: her entire being had become focused on that tiny brown, bony lump (of what he'd thought was a monkey skull) in her hands. He'd made a joke out of the scientific name, dismissed it, and for one instant her eyes had blazed sharply into his before she hid them behind a mask of contempt. She didn't want to leave, didn't want to go with him, stood aloof and distant, growing ever more guarded and angry as the morning wore on.

"I didn't know it was important," he admitted, only truly getting it _now_ that something even more important had been shunted aside that morning.

Guarded again, avoiding his eyes, his partner stood by herself and waged a visible war within herself (visible to him, at any rate, now that he knew her so much better than before). What to confess and what to conceal, what two things had been denied her when Booth reinstated the partnership. "It was important," she agreed, very softly. "And you didn't say anything about it."

"Neither did you," he reminded her.

They weren't talking about the skull anymore.

"You hired me back. There was nothing to say."

"I thought you wanted to work with me." Didn't she? Wasn't that why she got upset about being fired, and why she'd blackmailed him into letting her go with him again on their second case? Wasn't that why...? But then she'd called him stupid and hit him, after accusing him of getting her drunk for sex.

"I liked you." So shy, so unsure, just like last night with her admission of admiration and so blunt like that Tequila-steeped proposition that it forced something like a confession out of him.

"I liked you, too. I mean..." He swallowed an awkward gulp of truth that he didn't dare let out. 'Like' wasn't even remotely close, but he wasn't sure 'love' was any closer. Dizzy-stabilizing-hypnotic-tumultuous-soaring-crashing-comfort-joy-relief-aggravation ... was that a word? "I do ... still."

Chancing a glance at last, she lifted those glacial eyes until their gazes locked and sizzled.

Impulsively, he stepped closer.

A beep from the kitchen signaled that the brewing cycle had completed itself. It called them back to where they were, to what they had become.

Even she seemed to understand that.

"As a partner?"

As a partner; as a qualifier, safely out of bounds on the other side of that line that he drew when she first asked if he was dating anyone.

The safest thing to do was to agree with her; it was also the most cowardly, and he wondered if she realized that because she was avoiding his eyes again. Bracing herself again. Waiting.

"Yeah."

Once he said it Brennan nodded and resumed their previous discussion, crossing back into the kitchen on the pretense of pouring coffee. Because it was finished and their odd little interlude involving ancient history was finished as well. Steering them both back onto the track that their own past had nearly derailed, she told him about Tadesse.

"Tadesse worked on the Middle Awash project in the early 1990s before they located _Ardipithecus ramidus_, but he left Ethiopia when he was offered an emigration Visa as a political refugee. The United States preferred educated refugees back then. It's ironic, because the most highly educated are usually not the most desperate." She shrugged. "Even Tadesse is aware of the irony."

Seemingly it was settled: they still weren't going to talk about it. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Booth sighed. "So, he's got a degree in ... what. Archeology?"

"Paleobiology, but he only spoke Amharic and Russian fluently when he arrived. He had to immediately begin supporting relatives back home once he got here, which meant he couldn't pursue his degree. He started working at the Jeffersonian instead, while he learned English. By the time I started, Tadesse had already been here for two years."

He heard liquid puddling into cups, a clatter as the pot was shoved back into place.

Glancing back down at the letters that had been briefly forgotten again, Booth let his eyes wander over the one that had started this entire conversation. The anonymous one written in block printing. Her name and the publisher's address were neatly scripted in tight capitals that were evenly spaced, as if the writer had written that way for a long time and was comfortable using all capital letters.

Staring at the letter so intensely that the words blurred, Booth let his mind wander as he realized he'd seen writing like this recently. Suddenly it hit him, along with the scent of coffee that he drank with her and their nights together filling out endless evidence logs, incident reports, narrative extensions, and case disposition forms. They both used block printing daily, as did all law enforcement. But that wasn't what hit him so particularly hard when Brennan handed him his cup.

"Bones? You got any sheet protectors or plastic bags I can put these letters in?"

"In my kit," she assented. "You know that."

But he wasn't thinking about anything other than this: he'd also seen block printing in the security desk logs at the Jeffersonian tonight.

~Q~

* * *

**Author's Note:** The intimacy — er, I mean _investigation_ — is about to intensify!**  
**

**Scientific Note:** Brennan undoubtedly would have been handling a cast of that Ardipithecus skull, not the original which was so fragile that it took 15 years to extract & reassemble! Around the time Booth & Brennan met (in 2004), casts of the Ardipithecus skeleton ("Ardi") did arrive at the real Smithsonian (upon which the Jeffersonian is based), but a public announcement of the find was still several years away. If she had received that skull that day, it would have been an anthropological holy grail, and Booth wanted her to put 'abracadabra' down and go stand around in a garage... Well okay, her extreme testiness and annoyance that day actually does make some sense now. Doesn't it...?

The Middle Awash Project is real, on-going in Ethiopia for decades, and as stated they do send out casts of the fossils they recover to major laboratories around the world, for two purposes. First, as noted here, for comparisons with other fossils or fossil casts those museums & universities may contain. (That helps anthropologists place the fossils on the human family tree.) Second, to be prepared and used for exhibits such as the Smithsonian's Human Origins exhibit.

_Scienc_e magazine heralded the international announcement of the discovery of _Ardipithecus ramidus_ in a flurry of articles published in a special October 2009 issue dedicated to the topic ... right around the time Hart Hanson would have begun working on the script for the 100th episode... :P

More about the Middle Awash Project can be found here:  
middleawash . berkeley . edu / middle_awash / project_description . php  
(Designed for general audiences, curious non-scientists, and students.)

More about Ardi:  
Science; Special Issue: _Ardipithecus ramidus_, 2 October 2009; vol 326, issue 5949, pages 1-188.  
(Full of jargon. Accessing this issue requires registration, but I have PDF copies of the articles if anyone wants them.)

_All mistakes are mine._


	7. Say it with Flowers

**Author's Note:** This space left blank unintentionally.

~Q~

* * *

**Fan Mail - Say it with Flowers**

* * *

Wall flowers tend to blend in, but _Flowers on 14th_ popped itself in between two bland brownstones, a profusion of rosy brick with crisp white windows and flowers spilling out of window boxes then tumbling over the sidewalk in trailing tendrils of red, pink and yellow. The floral cheer carried right through the front door into the crowded front room, past a profusion of perfumed blossoms, until he reached a counter attended by a brightly clad woman of middling years.

"Good morning," she chirped, bright as a bird. "Is there someone special you're looking to please this morning?"

Glancing around, wondering idly which of these flowers his partner actually would like, Booth shook his head with more than a bit of reluctance as he pulled out professionalism and flashed his badge. He gave her one of his better smiles to go with it, though.

"Morning, Special Agent Seeley Booth. And you are...?"

"Oh, I'm Susan. Susan Burnaby."

The smile brightened up a bit more. "Susan, I was actually hoping you could help me trace an order this shop recently filled."

"Oh." Susan recoiled slightly, tucking a strand of hair nervously behind one ear, but then curiosity lured her back. "I hope everything's okay."

"Nothing to worry about, this is just part of an ongoing investigation," he assured her.

Nodding, she gestured for him to ask his questions.

"Okay, so I was hoping you could tell me something about this order." He presented the handwritten note tucked into an evidence envelope, explaining that the miniature pink roses it came with were delivered to the Jeffersonian the previous evening.

"That's Janelle's writing," Susan informed him. "That means the order was phoned in."

"Is she here? Could I speak to her?"

"Sure." The slow assent betrayed a hint of reluctance at no longer having him all to herself. Susan stood stiffly, side-eyeing him as she went to a curtain concealing the back end of the store. He got the distinct impression her slow compliance had more to do with impending envy than actual guilt. "Janelle? An FBI Agent wants to talk to you."

"Me?"

He heard the squawk of surprise clearly.

Susan smirked but didn't elaborate.

An older woman slipped past the curtain and halted in surprise, turning to regard her younger companion skeptically. "Is this like that 'arrest warrant' you served up on me last year?"

"That was just part of the act," Susan protested.

"Yeah, right." Janelle's exasperated eyes swept Booth from head to toe, then the general area surrounding him. "Where's the boom box?"

The _boom box_? Not sure whether to be confused or amused, Booth went fishing instead. "I'm sorry...?"

"No," Susan insisted, eyes wide. "He's not a stripper. He really is from the FBI, here to ask you about this." And that note card was passed on yet again.

"Oh. You're..." Pointing a glare at her companion, a flush spread across her cheeks at having been led to make such an embarrassing mistake in front of serious business. "I'm so sorry. Susan thought it would be hilarious to send a stripper to arrest me last year on my birthday and you look ... I thought—"

"I get it." He rescued her with a quick interruption, feeling heat sweep over his own face at the misunderstanding (flattering though it was, he supposed). This wouldn't have happened if he'd had Bones with him. He fielded all manner of misunderstandings and embarrassments with his partner, but nothing quite like this. Booth cleared his throat. "The note. I need whatever you can tell me about the person who placed this order."

Though still mortified Janelle recovered quickly the moment she saw the note card. Heavier of frame, sturdy in all the right ways, she frowned down at her own writing. Her mood shifted quickly as she exchanged another, entirely darker glance with her business partner. "He called yesterday morning."

Surprised, Booth asked if there was something distinctive about the call that would make it stand out in her memory, and Janelle chuckled without humor. "Being ripped off makes it memorable. Is that why you're here?"

"Ripped off..."

"Is that the one...?" Susan interjected.

"Yeah." Janelle was not happy about it, whatever the two were discussing.

"Pardon my intrusion," Booth interjected. "If I could get your name...?"

"Janelle Taylor. This is my shop."

"Great, can you tell me what happened?" His colored note cards out and pen poised, Booth waited.

Janelle puffed an irritated gust of contempt, slapping the offending note card down. "He called around nine in the morning, sounded really sweet but upset. He said he'd been fighting with his girlfriend over her long working hours and wanted to make it up to her."

"How did he plan to do that," Booth prompted.

"We talked about using flowers to convey feelings but since they argued over how much time she spends at work, he wanted to have them delivered while she was working late. So she would know that he understood. He was very insistent about getting them there before seven-thirty."

Receiving confirmation of his earlier hunch didn't console Booth at all. The guy knew her habits and work environment well enough to have pinned down a time late enough in the day that she would be relatively isolated while still at work, but yet early enough that deliveries would still be accepted. His stomach churned. "So he requested a specific time?"

"Yes..." Janelle leaned over to turn a page back in a planner set along the back wall. "Seven PM. We gave that order to Colby, he's reliable."

"Did the caller give a name?"

"His girlfriend's name was odd. Temperance Brennan."

Booth flinched, hearing the casual mention of his partner's name as some psycho's wannabe girlfriend. "What about his?"

In anticipation that he'd be asking this soon, Susan was rifling through a stack of receipts already and pulled one out with a frown. "Hector Sandoval."

"That's the caller?"

"Well now, who knows," Janelle shrugged. "That's the name on the credit card he used."

"A Visa charge," Susan added. "Had the correct account number and expiration date, the three-digit security code, and the zip code. We have to input all that at the point of sale terminal." And she gestured to the small machine standing idly by the cash register. "Janelle did everything right. Everything checked out. We thought the transaction cleared."

"So, it didn't clear..." Booth guessed, because both women seemed upset.

"No, we got a huge chargeback from the bank this morning. We're out over $300 dollars, plus fees. The card was stolen."

Unable to believe that basket of roses cost $300, Booth picked up the note card and frowned. "Did he order more than this?"

"Sure did. Thirty red roses."

"Wait, did you say ... _thirty_?!"

The women exchanged wary glances.

"You're not here about the credit card fraud, are you..."

"No." A sick coiling had begun to snake around his innards. This guy was slick, covering his tracks, phoning in orders using phony names and stolen credit. "The woman he sent them to, he may be stalking her."

"Oh, God!" They both looked properly horrified now, as well as thoroughly burned on the transaction, but Susan was the one moved to speak on their behalf. "Oh, we're so sorry, we had no idea."

"You took all the proper precautions," he reminded, which they had. It wasn't their fault and in a way they were even greater victims, having been screwed out of $300 worth of flowers. "This guy is the one who is responsible, okay?"

The proprietress sighed and settled herself against the counter with a resigned shrug. "No good deed goes unpunished."

Booth took a moment to record information off the sales slip, knowing it would lead indirectly. Mr. Sandoval may be a victim too, but he'd crossed paths with the stalker at some point and the misuse of his credit card gave Booth a much needed opening. Finally, there was a crime to investigate. Letters and flowers weren't illegal but using a stolen credit card was fraud. Identity theft. Outright theft of flowers unpaid for. It was somewhere to start. Pulling out his business card, he gave it to Ms. Janelle Taylor, who studied it with resignation before tucking it right next to the telephone.

"Is there anything else you need," she asked.

Returning his attention to the note card, Booth tried to anticipate what else a profiler would ask. "Did the caller dictate this note?"

Janelle nodded. "Yes, he told me exactly what to write on both of them."

"Mmmm. Either of you left-handed?"

"I am." Janelle again.

It was time to go, but suddenly a blip of ink smeared beside the word 'you' made him pause. "One more thing. What pen did you use to write this...?"

She glanced to her side and plucked up a blue pen, held it out. "Why?"

It was a Paper-mate. Seeing Bones had been right caused an emerging laugh to squirm and twist into something more like a pout when he envisioned actually telling her she'd been right. Not way, not a good idea. "You mind if I take that into evidence?"

"This? What for?" But she gave it up with a careless shrug.

"Just ... confirming a hunch." He bagged the pen and tucked it away with a note describing when and where he'd taken it. "You wrote out a note card for the roses, too?"

"Yes, I already said that."

"I know." He flared his best apology grin. "Just being thorough, so I don't have to come back and bother you later."

"Oh, it's no bother," Susan offered helpfully. "You come back any time."

"I might just do that," he promised. "Meanwhile, do me a favor. If any other orders come in for Temperance Brennan, call me right away. Hopefully we can catch this guy."

Securing their agreement, he walked back out to the street, searching up and down busy 14th Avenue NW for a place to stop and plan his next move. Track down Hector Sandoval. Get in touch with Brennan's publisher. Have Hodgins take a look at the letter. Get copies of the letter, pen and florist note cards over to the Behavioral Sciences Unit for analysis. Breathe.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting the zen moment. "Booth!"

"It's me." Her voice, stressed and trying to stay controlled.

"What's wrong?"

"More flowers. A lot more."

The thirty red roses, he suspected. "What kind?"

"Roses, long stemmed and red, over two dozen. It's obscene. Wasteful."

Booth pinched his nose and forced himself to breathe slowly for her sake because he was getting pissed/scared and she still wasn't getting it, how freaking serious this was. "Is there a note?"

"Handwritten." Her breath gusted across the phone speaker only a half second after his, as if they were unconsciously synchronizing. Hiding under her complaint of obscenely conspicuous consumption, he realized, was her own burgeoning unease. A long pause spooled tension between them, his from the unbearable wait, hers while she struggled to process meaning hidden in words that made a peculiar promise.

"Bones, what does it say?"

Another shift and pause, before she read it out loud. _"I'll take you away from all of this..."_

Icy cold dread clenched his fingers tightly around the phone, his link to her. Damn, damn it! He closed his eyes, breathing in calm so he could stay calm for her sake because under that frigid clench of terror there was a white hot fury building. Nobody was taking her from him.

His partner's voice faded out slightly, finally showing signs of confused alarm. "Booth? What does this mean?"

"Look, I'm up at Logan's Circle. I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Okay?"

"Okay." She sounded reassured but still confused.

What did this mean...? Fury welling upwards, rippling bleak shadows into his narrowed eyes, Seeley Booth stalked over to his SUV and slammed the door shut before allowing himself to slam his open palm onto the steering wheel. The horn bleated, startling pedestrians and he derived grim satisfaction to see other hearts beating fast enough to approach the pace of his own. It meant a damn stalker was out there, circling and watching _his_ Bones, planning to snatch _his_ Bones, getting close but still hidden in the shadows.

~Q~

* * *

**Author's Note:** It's not just the potential for violence that makes stalking such a terrible experience...

**Scientific Note:** Once again, I'm indebted to a few very helpful sources that are helping me understand underlying pathology, behavior and motivation of stalkers, as well as how an investigator like Booth would react. (When he's not feeling all possessive and alpha male, that is...)

1) J. Reid Meloy, Ph.D. and Helen Fisher, Ph.D.; _"Some Thoughts on the Neurobiology of Stalking,"_ Journal of Forensic Science, Nov. 2005, Vol. 50, No. 6.  
(Discusses the possibly physiological explanation for stalkers' behavior.)

2) Hazelwood, Robert R and Janet I. Warren; _"The Relevance of Fantasy in Serial Sexual Crimes Investigation,"_ Practical Aspects of Rape Investigation: A Multidisciplinary Approach, 4th Ed, Pg 55-66. CRC Press. (2012-05-14) Kindle Edition.  
(Discusses some of the reasons and rationalizations stalkers give to explain pursuit of a victim.)

3) Ramsland, Katherine, _Stalkers, the Psychological Terrorist_, Crime Library: Criminal Minds and Methods  
www . crimelibrary criminal_mind / psychology / stalkers / 1 . html

All mistakes are mine.


	8. Roses are Red

**Author's Note:** There comes a time in every story when the author has to decide where she's going. :P

If you recall, I admitted that reviews nudged this story into a different direction than what I'd planned when I posted the first chapter. Plan A was about 10 chapters intended to show the types of fan letters famous people get, how Brennan would react to them given she (probably) has undiagnosed Asperger's, and why that might be one of the reasons Booth is so protective of her. There is an element of that plot still woven into this extended story, which has tripled in length to explore a peripheral question that you lovely readers seemed to get excited over:

What if there was a stalker...?

What might change?

_*rubs hands with glee, pushes up shirt sleeves*_

The background research is mostly finished, the Plan B plot is completely outlined, and we are taking off in a new direction. As Dorothy remarked to Toto, "We aren't in canon anymore..."

~Q~

* * *

**Fan Mail - Roses are Red**

* * *

~Q~

In the time it took to navigate southward toward the National Mall, Booth reined in his temper just enough to mask it. Just enough to let his more rational sense take control again to dissect the words that accompanied the flowers. She worked too long; soon he would take her away from '_all of this._' All of what? Take her where? Metaphorical (like a vacation) or literal (like kidnapping or killing)?

His breakfast of coffee and donuts lurched violently.

_No one is going to touch her,_ his inner watchdog growled.

Traffic streaming down 14th Street snagged at every stoplight, slowing him down to the point where his promise of twenty minutes was broken. Urgency transmuted into waspish disgust at the delay. Damn District traffic ... where were all these idiots going, anyway? Didn't they know to stay away from the National Mall? Nobody in their right mind drives down there but tourists and Federal employees (and let's face it, neither of those two categories contained individuals in their right mind). In the end it was more like thirty-five minutes by the time he parked and pushed his way into the Annex off Constitution Avenue.

Inside the Jeffersonian the contrast between last night and this morning was striking, now that he'd been alerted to look for it. Booth noted streams of people, life and noise under bright lights where before there had been silence and shadows. More people just meant more to worry about, he noted with a sour scowl. Entering the security office for the second time in twenty four hours Booth flashed his badge at another uniformed officer, Jackson Pless, and asked if any florist deliveries had arrived.

After spotting Booth's name on the credentials Pless picked up a hand-scrawled note and the desk log and handed them both over with so little curiosity that Booth assumed he was expecting this. So he shifted focus and started reading the note. It was written by G. Tadesse, in an odd script that curled around like Hindi untangled and forced to resemble English (and therefore it looked nothing like any of the notes he'd seen thus far). The note instructed full cooperation with Special Agent Booth in regards to the safety of Dr. Brennan. Feeling his unease shift with each successive word he read, Booth finally brought his surprise back up to bear on Officer Pless.

"Really?"

"It was cleared with Dr. Ashcroft this morning."

The head of the Jeffersonian...? Yep, there at the bottom was another scrawled signature. Well now, yet another surprise. "So, the flowers...?"

Pless lifted a shoulder and nodded towards the log still waiting in Booth's hand. "Flowers on Fourteenth delivered a big bunch of red roses to Dr. Brennan about an hour ago. We logged the courier and the time."

"But you didn't notify me."

"We weren't instructed to do that, sir."

"Well, I'm instructing you now," Booth barked. "Any further deliveries, you call me."

A brief battle engaged, Pless's eyes narrowed in annoyance at the incursion into his territory but Booth's were burning with purpose. Pless growled but plucked the note from Tadesse out of Booth's fingers and scrawled an addendum. "There. Ya happy?"

"Not really." Worried, aggravated, anxious, and not one of those came anywhere near happy or even satisfied.

It almost looked like there would be another conflict but then Pless sighed and passed his pen over, along with the note. "What number you want us to call?"

A raised brow. This victory was almost too easy but Booth was not one to pass up suspicious offerings on silver platters. He scrawled his cell phone number and the note went back up beside the bank of monitors.

"Where are the roses now?"

"She's got 'em."

"Thanks."

As he left the security station, two more lines of inquiry were opening up in Booth's mental notebook: Tadesse's initiative, and Ashcroft's cooperation. Also, Pless giving in so quickly. A thousand questions and no answers.

Taking the back passageways up to the Medico-legal lab tucked away on the top floors, Booth paused again when a quick slip of his plastic access badge initiated a beep that admitted him beyond doors marked "Staff Access Only."

He was going into her space again, free admittance.

The key in his hand read: Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Unit above his name and photo, and on the back a magnetic strip that magically opened doors.

He'd been given this badge more than a year ago, when Brennan sat beside him at the bar in Wong Foo's and told him she would respect his ability to read subtle body language signals in others. Then he asked her what part of 'this is mine' she didn't understand, referring to the space he'd claimed in his favorite restaurant and declared a squint-free zone (not knowing she'd already made a space for him in _her_ favorite place). After finishing his rant that essentially excluded her from his world, she'd subtly brought him into hers, slipping access in front of him with a murmur of Latin. "Absit invidia," she'd said. "_Let there be no envy_."

It was one of those moments where he understood what she said without really getting what she _meant_. No envy. She didn't care about his territory at Wong Foo's? He should not envy her the access to her lab? She should not envy him his ease with people? After last night he was finally asking himself why she'd let him in so easily.

So completely.

_Why did she give me this access card...?_

A slim key into the lab, the card let him go anywhere he wished once he was inside. It was moments like this, when he couldn't spot her immediately up on the platform, that Booth realized the magnitude of access she'd entrusted him with, for his card was programmed with the same freedom that Brennan enjoyed. It allowed him to poke his head into offices and alcoves, the Bone Room or Ookie Room, Cam's autopsy suite, or even Limbo (on the rare occasions when he dared to follow her down there).

He might have to descend into Limbo today because Brennan wasn't in her office; only the flowers were. A huge, gaudy display of rash red dominated her credenza, blasting out of a white urn, almost too bulky for a single person to carry (which explained why she'd left them there and abandoned her office rather than carry the huge bouquet out by herself). The cloying scent of thirty roses hit him like a hedge barrier, surprisingly unpleasant and thick enough to almost taste, and an awareness of the trespass against her began to develop as he realized the assault upon her senses had driven Bones out of her own office.

The note from this batch lay beside the urn, already tucked into plastic in anticipation of his intention to have it examined.

I'LL TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL OF THIS.

Away from what... Letting his hand drop, he turned to take in her office with its relics, the mummy behind glass, the glass walls and coffee table, the couch that he had stolen a couple of naps from already. This office blended her contradictory natures: the distant, glassy scientist and warm, earthy anthropologist. The note had already taken her away because Bones wasn't here, in the place that was most like a home to her. Invasive flowers were taking away her security, her comfort, her control ... one bloody little bud at a time. Booth blinked, shocked to discover tears had somehow invaded the scene.

He shook his head, as if shaking the droplets off the way a wet dog does and turned to look for help with this emerging mess.

The first person he found was Cam in the autopsy suite, elbows deep in smears from sample jars. While he paused just inside the door and watched, she slathered a dab of something horrid onto a microscope slide and carefully slipped a thin cover over it. So deep in concentration was she that his voice startled her. "Do you know where Bones is?"

"Nope." Though she'd jumped Cam glanced up at him without rancor, her cheeks dimpling at his frazzled expression. "She said the roses were giving her a headache."

Cam's quip earned her a grimace from the man who was rapidly developing a rose-scented headache of his own. "No kidding," he muttered.

"I waited for you last night."

His head snapped up, her terse reminder of the reason he'd stopped by the lab twelve hours ago instigating more guilt than he wanted to acknowledge. Only last night he'd been planning a little liaison, and somehow it felt unforgivably traitorous these few hours later. Romantic roses he'd had no part in sending were rearranging everything right quick. "Yeah, I'm sorry. Something came up."

"More paperwork?"

That was the excuse he'd given to evade most of her other overtures but it wasn't an excuse. Nor was it untrue. "Look there's a ton of forms we have to go through—"

"I know, Seeley. I was a cop once, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." They had a past, a history every bit as deep and complicated as any divorced couple (sans the marriage and divorce bit). He pushed a hand through his hair, realizing that one impulsive night they'd fallen back into bed together was bad enough, but agreeing to a repeat was a vastly greater lapse in judgment. It couldn't happen again, not with Brennan standing in the crossfire between them.

Not with the scent of danger drifting out of flowers and notes being sent to his partner. Nothing could take his focus away from that.

"That's why I also know you left with her."

It wasn't an accusation so much as a statement of fact, devoid of inflection. Perfect interrogation technique, calculated to force an admission out of him. Once again, he would go ahead and admit it. "Yeah. Someone sent her flowers last night."

Soft lips that he'd kissed so recently pursed into a droll little bow while Cam considered her next move. She almost seemed amused, cynically so. "Everyone is after Doctor Brennan. Never would have guessed she'd be the popular one."

A slight tap against the door turned their heads to find a tall man wearing an electrician's coverall. "Sorry to interrupt. We're having trouble with the air conditioning and need to check your thermostat."

"Sure." Cam waved him in and turned back to Booth with another smug acknowledgement of her investigative prowess. "I know about the roses. She gave them to Angela this morning, and then even more arrived."

"This is serious, Camille."

"Yeah, somebody is seriously gunning to get noticed."

"Look, whoever is sending those flowers isn't copping onto it, and he used a stolen credit card to cover his tracks."

She straightened up, her mouth twitching in annoyance. "Well, I guess that's not surprising. That many roses must have cost a fortune."

"I don't like it."

"I'm the one who should be jealous." She shrugged but left hanging the implication that their recent reignition removed his right to harbor any interest in his 'work partner's' romantic life.

Stalking towards her, he shook his head and laughed at her obvious provocation. "Don't."

"Don't what." As if she didn't know exactly what she was doing. Her black eyes invited further sparring, a taunt she hoped he wouldn't back down from.

"Don't make it about me and you. This isn't a relationship."

"No? Then what is it, Seeley?" Cam let her fingers do the talking, walking them up his chest to toy with the knot of his necktie.

"A mistake. We both agreed it was a mistake."

Her smile flat-lined.

"So that little thing yesterday..."

They'd spent about fifteen minutes groping in a janitorial closet, which led to his hasty promise to meet her after work last night.

"A mistake." Implacable. Unmistakable. Brown bored into black, thoroughly documenting his shift in priorities with a single, singeing glare. "It's not going to happen again."

"Fine." Her hand dropped and folded.

She bowed out of their game with the casual indifference of someone who had nothing at stake to begin with, yet he knew it was a cover. She was angry. His step backwards might possibly be called a retreat, but salvaging pride (his or hers) was not one of those shifted priorities. "It's not just the flowers, it's _when_ they were delivered."

"I know, Ashcroft spoke to me this morning."

"Well what you _don't_ know is that there's also an obscene letter."

To her credit, the cop-turned-pathologist processed the additional information efficiently. "Is she in danger?"

At least she cared enough to ask.

"I don't know yet." But something wasn't right and he would not let any distractions divert him from keeping his partner safe. Booth turned and walked out, knowing where his anthropologist would go to ground, and not failing to feel the pathologist glare at his departing back. He knew she was pissed; he just didn't care. Cam had already been informed that Bones was always going to come first.

~Q~

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**Author's Note:** Thanks to all of you for reading, thanks for marking this story into favorites and follows, and thanks especially for the lovely reviews. It's wonderful knowing people are enjoying this story. :)


	9. Warnings and Worries

**Author's Note:** To my Jewish readers, **Chag Sameach **during this week of the Passover. To my Christian readers, peace and blessings on this Good Friday as you await the Easter celebration. To my remaining readers who have no holiday this week, happy weekend! :)**  
**

~Q~

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**Fan Mail - Warnings and Worries  
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He hadn't even taken two steps beyond the autopsy suite before Angela appeared out of nowhere (had she lain in wait?), swooping in to snare his left arm and steer him swiftly toward her lair. "I need to talk to you."

"And I need to talk to Bones, then Hodgins. Can't this wait?"

"Hodgins is busy prying bark beetles out of some unspeakable mess somebody insisted was human remains. I have my doubts, mind you. That it's human, I mean. Looks like hamburger." She shuddered.

"So that leaves my partner," he began, only to be cut off.

"Yeah, about that..."

Then Booth saw that she'd distracted him long enough to get him right where she wanted him, which was inside her office with the door shut. Light fell through the window upon those unwanted pink roses that had been left to languish on a side table while nearby, a still-life bearing shafts of light over pink blobs was already taking shape on canvas.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the impressionist rendering of the roses, not even when she deliberately placed herself in front of him.

"What's going on?"

"Maybe you could be a little more specific?" Classic dodge: stall for time in the guise of soliciting clarification of an otherwise vague and open-ended question. Any number of things might be going on at any given moment and how was he supposed to know which one thing in particular she had in mind?

At his evidently unconvincing effort to play dumb, Angela went from arms across to arms akimbo, her frown deepening as she shifted her weight forward. It was an aggressive move, the way she enlarged her area and stepped into his space (which was something he'd always found surprising, the subtle ways Angela could project 'intimidating' without betraying even a tiny smidgeon of her ultra-feminine persona).

"Brennan..."

And her eyes shifted pointedly to the flowers. But then just as pointedly back to him.

"...And you."

"Me?"

"Don't bullshit me, Booth."

Maybe she got it from her dad, Booth mused.

"What did she tell you?" Not a deflection this time, but looking for somewhere to begin so he could satisfy Angela and then get to his partner.

"How serious is this?" Angela's counter question indicated that she probably knew everything Brennan did. Either that, or she'd picked up on his urgency enough to cooperate in moving things along.

"What do you think?" And he didn't intend it as sarcasm. "If it was you getting these ... what would you think?"

Booth passed her the letter that he wanted Hodgins to analyze, the dirty little story starring Bones and her birthday suit. Angela read through it with one brow crawling slowly to an ever loftier height. "I'd think this guy should write for Harlequin."

"That good?"

"That bad." She rolled her eyes and passed the tainted paper back to him and it was only after she spoke further that he realized what she meant by 'that bad.' (Hint: his increasingly ineffective efforts to avoid answering her question.) There was just one, asked in several different guises, and now she was asking again. Well, hinting, more like. "Bren showed this to me a few days ago when she first opened it. Whatever has her upset today, it's not this letter."

"The roses."

A sideways shift of lips, eyes narrowing while shooting sparks, Angela shifted both her weight and her tone into something resembling mockery. "Try again, Studly."

"Me?" If not the letter or the flowers then there wasn't much else remaining, and since she expected him to guess, that meant...

"I'll ask again: how serious are you?"

Discomfited by her directness, he stepped backwards and allowed (silently) that she was probably right to ask. It was time that he answered, and although he owed nothing to the artist currently interrogating him on her friend's behalf, Booth knew he would have to answer to himself fairly soon. The window of opportunity would not remain open forever and yet he just couldn't bring himself to settle on a decision, not with so much riding on the outcome.

It might be fear, this twisting sensation alive in his gut as he contemplated all the potential bad endings and weighed them against the one sure thing he knew: to do nothing, risked nothing. It was safest just to stay as they were and then he would never have to worry about losing her completely.

Except now, a stalker threatened precisely that which he feared most: losing Bones.

"What did she say when she gave you the roses?" A counter-attack in the form of a counter-question.

"She doesn't like pink."

Yeah, he knew that. Everybody who knew her, knew that. "And...?"

Angela chuckled. "Well, there was a whole rant. She thought you were either overreacting last night, or..."

She trailed off, her gaze tracing over him with a speculative gleam.

"Or what?"

"Or, angling for entry."

What the hell did that even mean? His laughter was partially intended to relieve frustration but was no less provoked by the innuendo she hadn't bothered to hide. He laughed because the supposed source was so unlikely. "Bones said that?"

"Not in so many words." Angela's gaze sharpened against him again. "Have you forgotten who you're dealing with?"

Such a barbed question, tipped with venom, that he felt the sting of the words and reacted accordingly. "No."

"Step up or step back, that's what I always say." Angela uttered her warning airily, whirling around so quickly that her light, flirty skirt whirled with her. "But either way, stop stalling."

She walked off with nary a backward glance, taking up a paintbrush to plunge it into a gob of brown oil waiting on her pallet and then swiftly swipe brown streaks underneath the place where the white basket of roses rested on her canvas. Dabs and smears of black and white altered the brown, darkening and lightening shadows and light so rapidly that the brown smudges took on a distinct shape within less than a minute: a table to hold up the structure.

He wondered how she could accomplish it so quickly, and yet he shouldn't be so surprised. If anything, the efficient splashes of tint that changed brown into a table might well be a metaphor for how light and dark had also begun to alter his partnership just as rapidly. Less than twenty four hours after resolving to hold steady when she was so far from ready, he found his wayward thoughts of Brennan that were only yesterday teetering on the knife edge of temptation, had now begun the flailing against a final, fatal plunge into the abyss.

He was still trying not to fall.

And Angela was perfectly poised to provide the final thrust that would push him over that edge. Still without any change of posture or inflection, she nudged him with what he was waiting to hear. "She's in Limbo, Booth."

Waiting.

"I know."

"Do you really?" Her hidden meaning unmistakable, she challenged him. "Then what are you waiting around for."

"Do you think I'm overreacting?"

Pausing the paintbrush, Angela slowly turned around to assess his reason for changing topics. "Do you?"

"Maybe I am." Anybody in law enforcement would think so if a member of the public tried to lodge a criminal complaint regarding one anonymous letter and two anonymous flower deliveries. Glancing down at the letter that had set his gut on fire, Booth tried to fathom what exactly, he was reacting to. Was it jealousy or territoriality? (_Not really and probably, yes._) Would he feel this same savage sense of an enemy approaching if Cam had received these letters and flowers? (_No._) Did the worry stem from Brennan's well advertized weakness in sensing the level of risk people posed to her, or was his gut actually speaking to him? (_Yes and, most definitely._) Somehow he found the courage to add, "I can't be objective when it comes to her."

That admission, finally, softened her stance. "I know."

"She's not scared," he added. So that wasn't the reason he felt a four-alarm klaxon wailing in the distance. Aside from timing and a deliberate effort to remain unnamed, there was nothing else to go on. No threats, just ... instinct. An instinct that the bad spell was just beginning.

"Because she trusts you." Angela turned to look at the roses with a critical eye, examining the delicate pink petals with an artist's attention to detail. "These flowers don't worry her, but your reaction to them does."

"Yeah well, we've firmly established that Bones doesn't trust my gut." Any other case, they'd argue and laugh over stolen fries.

"Well, she might if you give her some evidence." The artist waved him off. "So go, have Hodgins look at that letter. Maybe he can find a watermark from St. Elizabeth's or something."

"How could you possibly think I'd find that reassuring," he groused.

"Hey, at least then you'd have a reason to panic." Angela's utterly unapologetic grin made him smile reluctantly in return. St. Elizabeth's housed one of the most notorious stalkers of all time, just a couple of miles away. Reassuring. Absolutely.

_Not._

"You are no help at all, you know that?"

She laughed lightly. "Did you think it would be easy?"

Heaven help him if he ever made that mistake. Nothing at the Jeffersonian had ever come easy to Seeley Booth.

Rolling his eyes, he rolled himself out of her lair and down a side corridor — still no Bones on the platform or in her office — and deposited himself at the entrance to his second least favorite place (after Cam's horrendous home with the fleshy corpses that even Temperance Brennan avoided). The "BugMan," as Booth not-so-fondly called him, was tucked back in the appropriately named "_Ookie Room,_" where all things ookie, icky and downright disgusting eventually ended up under his examination. Despite Angela's wry warning regarding barking beetles, he found the scientist hunched over a microscope, turning knobs and muttering under his breath about southern pine beetles not really deserving to take so much of his time and attention from matters more interesting.

Booth paused just inside the door. "What do you have against pine beetles?"

"Aside from the fact that they're everywhere, destroying native forests, consuming the forest industry (_eating away at the Cantilever bottom line, Booth surmised_), and of no help whatsoever in helping us determine if this body was moved...? Nothing."

Dr. Jack Hodgins lifted the bluest eyes Booth had ever seen in a man, his boyish enthusiasm over insects and muck having diminished not one bit since he'd reached adulthood. "They're just keeping me away from the really fascinating strains of keratinolytic fungi we found. Hair-eating fungi found only on poultry farms? Now _that_ is really something to get excited about!" If tone of voice could rub its hands together gleefully, his was generating heat.

Booth's grim visage, on the other hand, accomplished what boring pine beetles could not. He allowed himself to look distinctly unimpressed, causing the taphonomist to dial back his excitement a few levels. "But it's, uh, not one of your cases so you're probably not interested..."

"Nope."

"Yeah, this is a Virginia State Police thing..." Hodgins flipped a switch that made the microscope go dark before rising and stepping closer to the FBI Agent he was almost inclined to call a friend. "...and you're not here about that."

"No, I'm here to ask you a favor."

The smaller man's brow shot up. "A favor."

"I figure you owe me two."

"Two?!"

"Why are you bellowing?" The flat delivery floated just ahead of Zack Addy and just behind his arms, which were extended with a platter of greasy looking, foul-smelling bones. His partner's forensic anthropology intern glanced up to see the source of said entomological bellows and barely broke a beat as he indulged in abductive reasoning. "Oh, that's why. Hello, Agent Booth."

Eyeing the kid with not much more than a nod, Booth turned back to the multi-talented expert he needed and reminded him of sins past. "The way I see it, you owe me a favor for getting you out of a gala you didn't want to attend, and—"

"I didn't ask you to do that," Hodgins countered.

"—Christmas."

It was a killing blow.

"Good one," Zack chortled from his place by the boiler, earning himself a sour glare from his friend and a tolerant smirk from the agent.

"You had fun," Hodgins insisted.

"_Fun?!_ Being stuck here with you on Christmas, stuck in the _as_s with needles, sleeping next to _Goodman_, missing morning with my _kid_..."

"All right!" Hodgins capitulated with his hands thrown up, having noted he was outnumbered given Zack's defection (as evidenced by the kid's smug grin and "at least I gave him a robot!") and figuring it might be best to pay up early before Booth came up with something more horrific than... "What do you want?"

"I need you to analyze this, off the books." As the clandestine nature threatened to slip Hodgins down a conspiratorial-sized rabbit hole, Booth brought the letter into his range of vision, effectively cutting off the impending Oliver Stone-worthy digression when he saw the addressee. "Oh. Does Doctor B know about this?"

"Yes."

Taking the plastic covered letter curiously, Hodgins turned the protective envelope to view it from several different angles, examining its contents quickly with a well-practiced eye. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you can tell me."

"Sure." He shrugged, turning to a file cabinet and extracting a new transfer of evidence receipt and plain folder. "Why is it off the books?"

"It's not a formal case yet. It might end up being important later on so treat it like evidence. Just ... do it quietly."

"You want photocopies?"

"Yeah, thanks." After finding Bones, the next stop was the Behavioral Sciences Unit. But first... "You happen to know where Bones is?"

"Dr. Brennan is in Limbo," Zack answered. He had just deposited the last greasy bone (large, maybe a femur) into his boiler and once the lid was shut, a timer set, he glanced up at Booth with a rare burst of extrospection. "She got a phone call and after hanging up she looked like..."

The odor of sick, boiling rotten _human_ already taking over reminded Booth of why this was his second least favorite area of the lab.

"Like what?" He needed to get the hell out of here, away from chatty squints, away from the scents of roses and death.

"Like she wanted to be alone."

Bones wanting to be alone at a time like this? Not even noon and already this was turning out to be a very rotten day.

~Q~

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**Scientific Note:** I received help with writing Hodgins from the following two articles (A & B), which were contained within this book:

1) Tibbett, Mark & David O Carter, Editors; Soil Analysis in Forensic Taphonomy: Chemical and Biological Effects of Buried Human Remains; CRC Press, 2008.

_A)_ Dadour, Ian R & Michelle L Harvey; _Chapter 5: The Role of Invertebrates in Terrestrial Decomposition: Forensic Applications_, pp 109-122.

_B)_ Wilson, Andrew S; _Chapter 6: The Decomposition of Hair in the Buried Body Environment_, pp 123-152

And from the following research article (C):

_C)_ Mini, K D, Paul K Mini & Jyothis Mathew; _Screening of fungi isolated from poultry farm soil for keratinolytic activity_; Advances in Applied Science Research, 2012, 3 (4):2073-2077.

All mistakes are mine.

**Psychiatric Note:** St. Elizabeth's Hospital is not only real, but it is in fact the psychiatric hospital where John Hinkley Jr. was still incarcerated at the time this story takes place (late 2006). You remember him...? The stalker who, failing to win Jodi Foster's adoration with the 100s of letters he slipped under her dorm room door, finally resorted to shooting President Reagan. You never know what a stalker might do...

**Author's Note:** Thanks to all of you who have left reviews during the last couple of chapters. You are wonderful! Catching up on notes owed for chapter seven reviews is my goal for this weekend.


	10. Culture Shock

**Author's Note:** I didn't realize it when I started this story, but it turns out that April is Autism Awareness month. It's perfect timing for this chapter to post today, as it touches on how some people with Asperger's have described their difficulties in understanding and responding to social cues. The way Brennan describes her experience here is my best effort to combine what I know (not having been diagnosed myself) with what I've read from people who have been diagnosed, while at the same time maintaining Brennan's character.

~Q~

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**Fan Mail - Culture Shock  
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"He was wrong, you know."

The moment he stepped into Limbo she spoke without even turning around, as if she knew it was him. As if she somehow sensed him or (more than likely) recognized the cadence of his gait on the stairs or some other nuance about his stride that signaled his identity to her long before he actually came into her line of sight. Brennan stood slender and tall at the edge of a steel worktable, her hair swept up into a loose knot and her shoulders rounded around something in her hands.

"Who was wrong?" Letting his eyes trace the suggested curves that her lab coat couldn't quite hide (and telling himself he was checking for injuries which was ridiculous and even he knew it), Booth came closer and rested his gaze more comfortably on the fragile nape of her neck. A few wisps of her dark hair had escaped the halfhearted attempt at containment and he liked seeing her this way, not quite as fully put together as usual. It was the _late at night after too much paperwork and Pad Thai_ Bones, or _ten hours into a body recovery_ Bones, the version who occasionally let her guard down because she was too tired to notice a gap in her defenses had opened.

"That prosecutor."

Always a non-sequitur with her, Booth mused with a wry shake of the head. How was he supposed to know which prosecutor, given how many they'd faced together over the last year, not to mention ones she'd faced alone. How was he supposed to know what she was thinking? "You know, Bones, I'm not really good with the mind reading."

"Neither am I," she responded softly, her focus intent on a fragile-looking bone that vaguely resembled a butterfly in flight. "That's why I studied anthropology."

It was so quiet down here, despite the hard polished concrete floor and the miles of boxes filled with bones that should have bounced their voices, quiet even when lacking anything soft that might buffer sounds. There was nothing but ear-piercing silence and finally, a merciful ruffling of fabric as he took the liberty of leaning against a wall and breaking this painful disquiet. "So, uh, which prosecutor?"

Without looking at him, with no inflection at all, she replied and pierced him in a most unexpected way. "The one who implied I studied anthropology because of my parents. Psychologists are wrong about everything."

"He wasn't a psychologist," Booth reminded her, stifling a chuckle at her consistent disdain for anything resembling a behavior-based guess at motivation.

When she didn't offer him anything further in the way of an explanation, he finally decided the object in her gloved hand that was stealing her attention away from him might be worth discussing (at least from her point of view) so he asked about it. "Which bone is that?"

"Sphenoid," she answered, looking away from it at last and turning her troubled eyes his way. "Ordinarily it's hidden deep inside the skull such that only these two small points show on the exterior, here." And after pointing to the wingtips she pointed to an area of her own head, just above her cheek and behind the eyes. Pointed but didn't touch, because of the gloves and the bone still in the possession of her left hand.

"Like an iceberg," she added, "only the smallest part is visible on the surface."

"Okay..." Still not making sense. He waited.

She sighed and lowered the bone carefully to the exam table. "You have to get inside the head to see this, just like everything else."

"Get inside the head...?" Motive? He wasn't sure, watched her carefully because she never came right out and said what she was thinking. Wanting to ask her about the roses, wondering whether this strange introspection was related to that or something else entirely (_like what's going on between us_), Booth shifted forward two steps only to be frozen again when she looked at him.

Her eyes.

A frozen blue like icebergs, the same deep and icy color that hinted at inaccessible depths so far below the frozen surface that he had no hope of ever reaching them.

Damn it, he loved/hated her eyes, the way they could paralyze him completely when they showed such a shimmering gloss of confusion. That such a brilliant woman would look to _him_ for explanations... Even though he found it hard to move, he moved because it wasn't just pride that pushed him closer. It was pride plus a compelling need to comfort her, even though he didn't know what she was trying to tell him.

"Do you know what culture shock is?"

Another baffling change in topic, he mused. "Yeah, it's what you feel when you live in another culture."

"Too simplistic," she countered. And her eyes...

He wished she would stop looking at him with that directness that disarmed and nearly flayed him, but then regretted it because an instant later, she did. Brennan looked down, gathering evidence, he suspected, in the from of carefully complied thoughts. When she was ready, she pinned him again with insight, hers into herself, but also giving _him_ a view into her with what she revealed. Another door was opening, she was opening it.

"It's the moment when you realize you're misinterpreting everything. You thought you understood, but you were wrong. You've sent the wrong messages, received the wrong messages, you had no idea. You ... you don't understand anything at all." Her voice shook. She looked away. "It's like that every day."

"Bones." He could not just stand there, let her exist like this, even if he wasn't sure what was causing her such distress. "Hey, it's gonna be okay."

"I am an alien in my own culture, Booth. Every day is culture shock."

"Okay, I don't know what that means," he began, every good intention of proving otherwise dispelled by her willingness to offer up an example.

"Why do people give flowers? You gave me flowers once."

He stopped, just in front of her, swallowing a nervous denial that, technically, he'd given the flowers to her dead mother, to be placed on Ruth Keenan/Christine Brennan's grave. Technically. But he'd meant them for her, chose them carefully and ... "Yeah."

"But that wasn't because you harbor romantic thoughts." And at this assessment she halted for a half second, giving him a wider view through that door, a chance to either confirm or deny her interpretation of his motive.

She was wrong about that, however. He drew a sharp breath, suddenly just a bit sick at the realization of how successfully he'd covered his less professional intentions and here was the proof of his success: she didn't know. (Which was what he'd wanted, of course.) And now when he could say 'well, actually...' he choked and the door eased closed.

She waited half a heartbeat, her gaze lifting to his with a too-trusting assurance that she understood Booth completely and therefore she was unaware of the irony of having come so close to disproving her own argument right then. Brennan shook her head, believing she had confirmed her own hypothesis with recollection of where those flowers had ended up, then added additional evidence. "Angela gave me flowers once. For my birthday. They were daisies because she knows I like them but that is not a romantic gesture."

"No," he agreed roughly. His voice sounded rough and strained because these cracks in her wall were forming under the hidden power of flowers. Wall flowers, creeping upwards, sending tiny little tendrils into her weak spots and splitting her open, bit by bit. He wanted to hold her together and yet he also wanted to watch her strong, stone walls fall apart under the relentless onslaught of fearful flowers. In her vulnerability he saw his own conflict of interest.

It would be so easy for him to exploit her.

Wouldn't it?

"Why did he send those to me?"

Motive unknown, a mystery hidden within an anonymous skull, and the sphenoid bone she'd been looking at had a context. She was troubled by not knowing, hoped he would explain that which had no explanation. She didn't understand why a man would give her flowers and not lay claim to the meaning behind the gesture.

"I don't know." No one could ever really know what another person thought, and a moment later she unknowingly proved that her thoughts were just as mysterious to him as everyone else's were to her.

"Of course not. It was a rhetorical question."

Laughing, he shook his head and reminded himself Bones was always stronger than she looked.

"Why are you laughing?"

"You surprise me. Often."

"What is so surprising to you?"

"I thought you were down here alone because you were upset about the flowers and the notes."

"Why would they upset me?" The old familiar pinch had returned to her brows, along with her trademarked quizzical stare that suggested one of them was not operating at optimal mental efficiency (and she was not including herself among the possible contenders). "Given that his motive is unknown, I have contented myself with taking a 'wait-and-see' approach. It seems the only viable course when confronted with puzzling and inconsistent behavior."

The biting and bitter current was not lost on him, not with Angela's warning still so freshly stinging him as well. "I'm just worried about you."

"There's nothing to worry about."

"We don't know why he's sending you these notes and flowers."

"We don't know that the same person sent both the letter and the flowers," she countered. "Nor do we know why."

"At the moment, I'm assuming—"

But she cut him off. "Assuming what, that two lines of text will tell you his motive?"

"Behavior plus those notes. Yes." Booth braced himself for an argument, knowing she would not like his proposal for finding an answer. "I'll take everything to the Behavioral Sciences Unit for analysis."

Almost comically, her mouth contorted around the very idea (as if she'd tasted something sour). "Why?"

"So we can figure out who this guy is, see what he intends."

"What he intends is unknowable."

"Well, it doesn't have to be," he defended.

"As for who he is, you'd be better off with a forensic linguist."

Suddenly they were on firmer footing, toe to toe again, facing off each other and determined to march their investigation into different directions. Hands on hips himself now, he indulged in a moment of teasing and provocation (just to enjoy this little moment of normality in what was otherwise a stressful morning). "What the hell is a forensic linguini?"

"You do that on purpose!" Her accusing stamp of disapproval was softened by a reluctant smile and exasperated shake of the head.

"Do what?"

"_Linguist_, not linguini. An expert on language form, meaning and context."

"How is that going to help us get to motive?"

"It won't." Brennan's know-it-all smirk made an appearance. "It will prove one of us right, however."

"About what?"

"If the same person wrote the obscene fan letter and the notes accompanying the flowers. Also..."

And then she trailed off. Booth resisted the urge to rush her when he saw the clouds that had parted during the last few minutes gathering once more around her. It felt eery and ominous, the way shadows penetrated so deeply between them again while his partner decided what she would tell him.

"Bones?"

_Don't shut me out._

Her eyes lifted and they were right back at the beginning, back at the point where he found her standing alone in Limbo and culture shock was sending out its shock-waves once more. "I got a phone call."

This was no non-sequitur, he could tell by the resonance between what they'd argued about and Zack's revelation of the same solitude-inducing event that had apparently driven her down here in the first place. He'd assumed Zack meant her phone call out (to Booth, about the newest rose delivery and its cryptically menacing message). But she didn't mean that at all. She meant some other phone call, incoming.

Everything stopped, including his heart. "What?"

"Someone called my office extension, the voice was disguised. He said I'm being watched."

"The same guy?"

"I have no way of determining that," she asserted, yet looked uneasy enough that he now considered that phone call to be the strongest contributing factor to the distress he'd caught her trying to rationalize away.

"What did he say, exactly."

_"Can you feel the evil eye on you? He is watching."_

A stream of scathing curses that would surely earn him extra years in purgatory flowed through his head and blistered across his paralyzed tongue but he swallowed them down. The last thing either of them needed was for him to lose control but _damn!_ he was angry. Just ... angry. Just ... completely frustrated by her (only Brennan could turn him inside out like this). "Bones, why the hell are you down here by yourself?"

"I needed time to think."

"Think about what? It's too dangerous for you to be alone. You're being stalked!"

"We don't know that," she insisted. Yet the stress had crept back into her voice, lifting the rational lid to reveal roiling fear boiling underneath.

"Letters, flowers, phone calls, all within a couple of days. What, you think this is all just a bunch of coincidences?"

"It could be."

"You are being stalked and you know it," he told her, needing her to stop denying her instincts. "You can feel it."

"Feeling isn't knowing."

"It _is_, damn it! He's _watching_ you! He wants you to know, he's trying to scare you."

"It doesn't make sense."

"It's psychological warfare," he warned. "It makes perfect sense."

"Being observed is not a threat, it's what a cultural anthropologist does. I've been the observer and I never harmed the people I was watching. So it's not rational to be afraid, I'm trying to stay rational. I just ... I don't understand."

She felt uneasy but didn't know it was normal, felt scared but didn't know why. The cultural anthropologist did not understand the culture of being stalked, the concept that someone she didn't know would deliberately try to terrify her. The trouble was, no one ever understands that; and even if the reason were known, it wouldn't make the experience any less terrifying.

"What is it that don't you understand?"

"Where does he think he's going to take me?"

The note from the red roses? That gave him pause, the essential sensibility of her confusion. Taken with the phone call, it was an excellent question.

~Q~

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**Scientific Note:** I am once again indebted to the following resources.

1) Hood, Bruce M. _Mixed Signals: Social Intuition Goes Awry._ Scientific American online, March 7, 2011.

2) Scientific American Editors (2013-03-18). Understanding Autism: The Search for Answers. Scientific American. Kindle Edition.

3) Soraya, Lynne. _Asperger Emotions and Adult Relationships: Emotional expression and romance on the autism spectrum_. Published on September 7, 2008 by Lynne Soraya in Asperger's Diary. Psychology Today.

4) Everyday Asperger's. _Aspergers Traits (Women, Females, Girls.)_ A blog post from 10 February 2012.  
aspergersgirls . wordpress 2012 / 02 / 10 / aspergers-traits-women-females-girls /

All mistakes are mine.

**Author's Note:** Oh boy, it's getting scary now...


	11. Hunters and Howlers

**Author's Note:** Ah, I love the smell of paranoia on the eve of a Bones season-ending cliffhanger... Only one episode is left before the evil Bones writers unleash whatever horrors they're gleefully planning. Are you scared? I am.

Speaking of evil writers and scary paranoia, if you're not reading Wendish's Conspiracy Theory, get over there and prepare to have your minds blown. Yikes! (And I mean that yikes in a good, _OMG this is amazing-I can't stop reading-when is the next update!?_ kind of way.)

~Q~

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**Fan Mail - Hunters and Howlers  
**

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"There's no threat and it wasn't mailed; this isn't an FBI concern." Special Agent Leo Cronin set the photocopy of Brennan's expletive-laden letter down, shaking his head. His desk was already piled high with threat evaluations on various government staffers who found themselves on the receiving end of unsolicited hate. Though Dr. Brennan did contract to the Federal Government and that did entitle her to a moment of his expertise, Cronin knew a low risk situation when he saw one.

At least, that's what Booth guessed the local expert on risk analysis was thinking. The cynical agent must have decided this was basement level stuff (as in, the source of the letter probably never left his mother's basement except to take his annual shower). Or as in: basement dwelling, slavering fans warranted a basement level of alarm.

His fellow Special Agent, Seeley (the Suspicious) Booth wasn't convinced, however. "Look, I just need an expert opinion on the record. Is this guy someone to worry about?"

Cronin had spent fifteen years investigating celebrity stalkers in the Los Angeles field office before moving to his current post in protective intelligence, where he investigated the same kinds of wing-nuts but these ones were mostly chasing Federal employees rather than entertainers. Letters like this one arrived by the dozens daily, and varied only in the creative ways they managed to word what they wanted with the object of their lust (or venom). If anyone could make a good guess on the risk, Booth figured Cronin was it. The trouble was, Cronin seemed reluctant to open yet another file on the basis of one letter.

"He was looking at her picture and started dreaming about her reaction when she reads his magnum opus." With a grim little twist of his lips, Cronin dismissed the missive with a vulgar gesture. "The guy probably jerked off writing it. He's blown his wad."

"You're talking about my partner," Booth growled. "Have some respect."

"Booth, these guys... How can I put this so that your delicate Catholic ears don't burn?"

Now he was taking heat for demanding respect for his highly educated, professional, (genius!) partner who worked tirelessly in the cause of justice? "This has nothing to do with me being Catholic."

Leo chuckled. "Yeah, I get it. Some guy is making lewd remarks about your girl so now you got your boxers in a twist."

"My _partner_. An expert in her field who also happens to be a valuable asset to the FBI." This was going nowhere. He snatched up the letter and the notes, on the verge of leaving.

Believing the unspoken threat that Booth was about to take his toys and go home, the other agent relented. "Look, I'm just jerking your chain. You made it too easy, the way your ears turned all red."

Of course his face was red, because he couldn't stand the thought of some disgusting troll drooling over Bones, objectifying her and... He couldn't complete the thought without feeling the heat burning in him again. The rage made him want to say a few more Hail Marys, a few more Our Fathers, pray the Rosary a few times in anticipation of avoiding the penance to come. At the rate he was going, Father Mackey would make him do the Stations of the Cross. Groaning at the thought, Booth stopped at the partial apology and hoped Cronin's serious evaluation might yet save him from so much time spent on the kneeler.

The guy was finally offering an olive branch, or at least one serious reading. Maybe. Booth turned to pin his reluctant playmate with an impatient scowl. "Are you going to look into this, or not?"

"Sit."

A command only an obedient dog would obey. Booth narrowed his eyes on the older man, negotiating for more than an analysis by his refusal to allow disrespect. "I'll stand. I've got an identity theft and bank fraud issue to look into since you think this is such a waste of your time."

Something about the way he said it must have registered because Agent Cronin perked up. "Bank fraud?"

Well, it was reaching, just slightly. Just enough of a reach to feel the muscles burn. Booth edged further back into the cramped little office. "The guy sent her flowers, really expensive roses with those cryptic notes, using a stolen credit card."

"These notes?" Sent on someone else's dime. Finally the threat assessor looked down at the photocopy of the two note cards, with their odd messages.

_Sweetheart, you work too long and too hard._  
_I'll take you away from all of this._

"Yeah, and since I spoke to you on the phone this morning, there's been a phone call."

Cronin's relaxed posture vanished, his spine snapping to attention. "Well why didn't you say so?!"

"You were too busy maligning my Catholic respect for women," Booth retorted.

Cronin ignored that, having reverted to all business. "What did the caller say?"

"_'Can you feel the evil eye on you? He is watching.'_"

"Hmmm. It's not the same guy."

"What?"

Leo picked up the letter again and waved it. "What I was trying to say before you got all bashful, is that we say there are two general kinds of stalkers out there. You got the hunters and you got the howlers. I mean, that's the terms we started using. The hunters don't announce themselves. You used to be a sniper, right? I'm sure you didn't send notes ahead letting your target know you were out there. It was just ... bang!"

A reluctant agreement, followed by a wince.

"That's how hunters operate: most of the time you don't know they're out there until they strike. Then you got the howlers. They make a lot of noise but usually, they're harmless. Now this guy..." again the paper moved, the letter fanning cool air between them "...he's getting off on writing this and imagining your partner's reaction to it. He doesn't actually care if she ever sees it, for him the fantasy of her reaction will probably be enough. He's a howler."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, God, there was a whole study. Some eggheads analyzed letters from stalkers based on every permutation you can imagine to see if there was any predicable pattern in the letters that suggested a physical threat. You're gonna laugh, but I'm telling you the reasons why _this_ letter isn't your biggest problem. You ready?"

Booth lifted his hand in a lay-it-on-me gesture.

"Number one: he used lined notebook paper."

And right on schedule, Booth sputtered out a laugh. "Seriously?"

"I told you, don't laugh. The numbers don't lie."

"Lined notebook paper means something?"

"Statistically, guys who use this kind of paper don't approach."

This was unbelievable.

"Next, he admits that he doesn't know her and she doesn't know him. That is very significant. There aren't any personal details anywhere in this letter."

Uncertainly, Booth inquired. "That's normal for a fan letter, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but not in the ones you gotta worry about. The howlers who cause the most problems think they're in a relationship with the target. She's his girlfriend or sister, for example. He'd write things about his family, tell her about his dog, that sort of thing. He'd ask her why she's ignoring him."

Okay, so maybe this anonymous thing wasn't so dangerous, Booth decided, finally relaxing a little.

Leo started in with the teasing once more. "Finally, he wrote about sex. You're going to have to get over your prudish ways, Booth. We're gonna talk about sex."

"Shove it, Leo."

Leo laughed, letting Booth know it was all in good fun. "It's all about the fantasy, and the way he writes it, this guy doesn't actually want to consummate anything. He's got it all going on in his head, see? If he actually met her, that would blow the whole thing over. Ruin it. He likes the distance."

"Okay, so you're saying this letter, the disgusting one, is harmless?"

"Probably. Odds skew highly in favor of that being a sex-starved howler. But these other notes and the phone call, they're ... odd."

"Odd, how?"

"A mix of howler styles; it's unusual. You should take these down to Quantico."

Although he definitely wanted to do that very thing, he didn't have time to run downstate just yet, not with so much being flung at him here in DC (Angela's friendly fire, fraud & phone calls). Frustrated, Booth snapped, "What's odd? Can't you just tell me what _you_ think?"

"He's covering his tracks with the stolen credit and anonymous delivery to her work place, plus the threats are innuendos deeply concealed under a seemingly romantic or warning style of communication. It's like Casanova meets Deep Throat."

"That's just..." Ew. Booth wondered if all the twisted fan mail over so many years had warped Cronin's mind a little. He shook it off. "...creepy."

Cronin studied the notes carefully, his lips moving forward and backwards as if he were unconsciously chewing on his thoughts. "What was that phone message again?"

"I'll write it down." Booth grabbed a Post-it, scribbling it out. Brennan had done the same right after hanging up, which was one of the reasons Booth trusted her recall was probably perfect.

Grabbing the sticky note, Cronin slapped it down, arranging the three notes in the order received as well as grouping them by method of delivery. The letter had been set aside and the threat assessor stared down at the notes with dawning insight. Booth watched his face shifting expressions as he read each note and then muttered, "he changed subjects."

"What?"

Cronin pointed. "He changed the subject of each sentence. First, you. Next, I. Finally, you and then _he_."

_Sweetheart, **you** work too long and too hard._  
_**I'll** take you away from all of this._

_Can **you** feel the evil eye on you? **He** is watching._

"What does grammar have to do with anything?"

"He's trying to establish a relationship with her. First. He notices her and what is important to her: that she works long hours. The first note is about her as a person. Second. He wants to intervene with her, show her the world outside of her work in some way. Or, maybe he wants to protect her. The second note is about what he's going to do for her.

"The third note is a warning. The evil eye, _'he'_ is watching..." Here Cronin paused, thinking. Suddenly he twisted around and dove into a file cabinet, fingers dancing across the tabs until they pinched tight over a file bearing a female senator's name.

"This guy." The file flapped open, papers slapping sideways and slipping half across the desk as he hastily paged through them. Cronin started explaining while seeking out the report that had snagged his memory and dragged this old case out into the light. "He, uh, thought Senator Crosswell was in danger from some crazy-ass conspiracy. You know, like he'd watched The X-Files too much or something. Said aliens were colonizing the earth and some shadowy network of bad guys was going to blow her away. He didn't think her security detail was good enough so he was going to take over."

That was ... Booth felt his brows pop up with shock. This had to be the weirdest stalking case ever, right? "Wow."

"Yeah, I mean, the guy was nuts. But — and here's the key — he was a bigger threat to the security staff surrounding Senator Crosswell than he was to the Senator herself. He tried to shoot one of her bodyguards, said the guy was part of the shadow syndicate."

Stunned, Booth turned from the weird communications to the Crosswell file, then back to Cronin. "You think this is the same kind of crazy?"

"I don't know. For now, I think we need to bump your partner's case higher up the food chain. I'm opening an official file." He pulled out some forms and handed them to Booth. "Have her fill these in, giving me as much background as she can. Meanwhile, you need to get BSU on these messages and Booth..."

The warning was unmistakable, even before he said it.

"Keep an eye on the security staff at the Jeffersonian. They might be the ones most in danger."

"What about Bones? I mean, she's the one I'm worried about."

"She may be in danger, too," Cronin admitted. "If this guy perceives some act of hers as a change in allegiance, a defection or betrayal of some kind, he might turn into a hunter."

~Q~

* * *

**Author's Note:** Whoa. Bet you didn't expect that! Now you might be wondering ... how evil is _this_ writer? (Hint: VERY!) :P

In case you've also been wondering why that Covalent Bond girl never sends out timely thank you notes any more, hopefully you'll forgive her when you check out the reading list below. That's over 1000 pages of reading, crammed in between life, labs, studying, writing and occasional hours wasted on sleep. :P

**Scientific Note:** Look out, references below! The study Cronin mentioned in this chapter is the one authored by J. Reid Meloy.

1) Dietz, P. E., Matthews, D. B., Van Duyne, C., Martell, D. A., Parry, C. D. H., Stewart, T., Warren, J., and Crowder, J. D., _"Threatening and Otherwise Inappropriate_  
_Letters to Hollywood Celebrities,"_ Journal of Forensic Sciences, JFSCA, Vol. 36, No. 1, Jan. I991, pp. 185-209.

2) Fein, Robert A. and Bryan Vossekuil, _Protective Intelligence and Threat Assessment Investigations: A Guide for State and Local Law Enforcement Officials_, US Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, National Institute of Justice. July 1998. pp 1-65.

3) J. Reid Meloy, Ph.D. _Communicated Threats and Violence Toward Public and Private Targets: Discerning Differences Among Those Who Stalk and Attack_. J Forensic Sci 2001; 46(5):1211–1213.

4) Calhoun, Frederick S. (2012-08-22). Threat Assessment and Management Strategies: Identifying the Howlers and Hunters. Taylor and Francis CRC ebook account. Kindle Edition.

5) Meloy, J. Reid and Jens Hoffmann, Editors. International Handbook of Threat Assessment. Oxford University Press, USA. Kindle Edition. (2013-11-05).

6) Kessler, Ronald, The FBI: Inside the World's Most Powerful Law Enforcement Agency. Pocket Books, 1993.

~Q~

* * *

_Sorry to be so wordy, but if one person asked, probably quite a few just silently wondered..._

**Catholic Note:** Someone asked for a bit more information on the Catholic references in Booth's thoughts. Briefly, I'll describe what those things are so non-Catholics aren't confused. Catholicism is one of the three main branches of Christianity (for those who aren't Christian).

"Good" Catholics go to Mass (church) at least once a week. If they've sinned, they must go to confession before they can partake of the Eucharist during Mass. (Other Christians may call it Communion, or the Lord's Supper.) The priest/preacher blesses bread and wine, and the members of the church drink it to remember (or in the case of Catholics) recreate Jesus Christ's sacrifice for mankind.

After confessing one's sins, the priest usually gives a penance. Often the penance is a combination of specific prayers plus some kind of restitution or redirection. If you stole something, for example, you return or replace it. If you got angry, you have to pray for the person you are angry with or do something kind for him. If you are assigned prayers, the priest will say something like, "pray five Hail Mary's and five Our Fathers." Catholics refer to these prayers by the first words in the prayer.

"Hail Mary" is a prayer that Catholics use when praying the Rosary and especially during times of stress, asking Mary to pray to God on their behalf. Catholics feel this is equivalent to asking friends to pray for us when we're going through rough times. It's taken from the greeting that the Angel Gabriel gave to Mary when he announced she would become pregnant.

"Our Father" is also known to other Christians as 'The Lord's Prayer.' Jesus taught it to His disciples as the best way to pray. I think this version (the one Catholics recite at every Mass) is the one given in the Gospel of Matthew:

"Glory be" is very short and I think only Catholics say it.

When praying the Rosary, Catholics recite all three of these prayers in combination with reflecting on events from the life of Jesus and special meditation.

The Stations of the Cross is more complicated, but basically a Catholic prays the above prayers plus special prayers and mediation while progressing through a series of pictures (stations) showing 14 events of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. At each station you must reflect on the meaning of what happened (for example, the first station is traditionally Jesus praying to God in the Garden of Gethsemane on the night He was arrested), mediate on what it means to you, say a prayer specific to that event, then say the three prayers mentioned above before moving to the next station. Catholics often pray the Stations of the Cross during Lent (the 40 days before Good Friday/Easter Sunday).

It can also be assigned as a penance, which is what I had Booth fretting about. It's very time-consuming. ;)


End file.
